


In the Hands of Yes

by Hth



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Aliens Make Them Do It, M/M, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-14
Updated: 2009-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-04 10:25:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hth/pseuds/Hth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There's a ritual, Colonel! Do you know what kind of ritual? You have no idea! There could be – it could be dangerous, or, or – perverse!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Hands of Yes

"One more thing," Major Lorne said, like there was never _not_ one more thing. The day they got out of one of these staff meetings without ten diversions and two false starts at dismissal, John would eat his hat. His metaphorical hat. He’d never much liked hats, actually, although he did once buy a fedora at an unfortunate Indiana Jones stage of his life. Lorne slid a folded piece of paper across the conference table saying, "Mail call," and John reached toward it automatically before he realized it wasn’t being passed to him at all.

Beside him, Ronon looked down at the paper and back up at Lorne. "Where’d you get this?"

Lorne shrugged. "Some guy passed it along to us right before we came back through the Gate – asked if we knew a Ronon Dex from Sateda who lived in the City of the Ancestors."

Ronon put his fingers on it gingerly, and when it didn’t come to life and gnaw on his hands, he picked it up. There was thick, dark writing on the front, and Ronon said, "It’s written in Satedan."

"Yes, that’s why we’re all waiting so patiently for you to read it to us," Rodney said.

Elizabeth gave him a look and then looked back at Ronon. "It belongs to you, Ronon. You can take it with you if you’d like to look it over in private. I’m sure you’ll update us if it turns out to concern anyone other than yourself."

He didn’t take it somewhere private, though. He unfolded it, and John could see that the page was covered in lettering. As Ronon’s eyes moved up and down the page, his expression got more baffled, not less, until the curiosity was killing John. He’d have started bugging Ronon to read it out loud, if he hadn’t been positive that if he just waited...a second....

"Well, for God’s sake!" Rodney said. _Thank_ you. "It’s a subpoena, it’s your tax rebate, it’s a birthday card, it’s the Publishers Clearinghouse Sweepstakes!"

"I don’t know," Ronon said, laying the page back on the table and scratching the back of his neck thoughtfully. "I think it might be a hoax or something...."

"What kind of a hoax?" John asked, ignoring Elizabeth’s warning look.

Ronon picked it up again. "It’s from someone I don’t know – someone from home. She says her...her lover just died, and he confessed something to her. He was a Vacunese mercenary who served under a contract on Sateda. That’s where they met. He’s the one who helped her...helped her get away before the worst of it. He told her that he was asked to take something with him and hide it from the Wraith. I don’t.... I don’t think this is for real. Who gave this to you?"

Lorne put his hands up. "Some old guy, I really have no idea. Apparently it’s been passed around for a while now, trying to get it to one of us to give to you."

"To hide what from the Wraith?" John said.

Ronon pushed his hair back, and for a moment his face seemed to show awe, then something like grief, then back to narrow-eyed suspicious anger. "Says this dead mercenary took a data wheel with everything from the Scorpion Project on it, that he gave it to some high priest on Vacuna for safekeeping. She says...I should have it."

"Scorpion Project?" Rodney said, leaning in with that terrifyingly familiar glint in his eyes.

"Why you?" John said.

Ronon looked directly at Rodney with a warning frown. "Don’t," he said. "There’s no such project, it was just a story. I don’t know why.... I don’t know what this is all about." He stood up abruptly and said, "Can I go now?"

"Of course," Elizabeth said.

"No!" Rodney said. "It was a weapon, wasn’t it?"

"It’s not _real_, McKay."

"It was something like the Hoffan drug, wasn’t it? Only it worked. That’s why you’re immune to the effects of the Wraith, that’s how you lived, it was _tested_ on you and it worked, _that’s_ why the Wraith bombed your world into the Stone Age instead of just culling– "

Ronon clenched his fist around the paper, dropped the balled-up remains on the floor, and walked out.

"Really _nice_, Rodney," John snapped. He probably shouldn’t, because given the wide-eyed, stricken look on Rodney’s face, he didn’t need any flashing signs pointing to where he’d just taken a very wrong turn, but John still couldn’t help it.

"All right, I know. I’ll talk to him. I’ll _apologize_," he said to John’s look. "I really will!"

"And then you’ll go right back to squeezing him for information. Look, just leave him alone, I’ll talk to him." Rodney’s mouth thinned like he was going to fight back, but instead he waved an impatient _be my guest_ gesture at John, and then the meeting was over for real.

It took John about fifteen minutes to find Ronon in an empty room on one of the upper levels, where he’d found a chair to bring up to a window. He was balancing the chair on its back legs, one of his own feet on the floor and the other braced on the windowsill. "Nice view," John said, leaning against the frame of the window. It seemed like the thing to say, even though every window in Atlantis had the same view: lots of water.

"He’s insane," Ronon said, half-admiringly. "I don’t know where he comes up with this stuff."

"He’s got quite the imagination," John agreed.

"Nobody ever tested anything on me. I don’t know why they.... I don’t know why. But he’s right about one thing, maybe. If there really was a Scorpion Project, if it really did work.... Then it probably was because of that. That it wasn’t just another culling." He looked from the ocean view to John, and suddenly there was that uncanny regression John had seen once or twice before, where the soldier John knew seemed to crack open and reveal an entirely different person – younger, more hopeful, but less certain. "You think we should go check it out?"

"That depends," John said slowly. "I’d still kind of like to know why this person you’ve never met thought it was so important that you be the one to find this thing. Could it be some kind of bait?"

Ronon grimaced slightly, looking embarrassed. "I doubt it," he said. "I seem to be sort of.... Well, the letter said people have been talking about me. She said everyone who came from Sateda knows that...that I was a Runner, and I escaped, and that I– " Embarrassed switched immediately to guilty, and he lapsed into silence.

"That you _what_?"

Ronon shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I’d kind of rather not say," he muttered. "I just – I did this thing that a lot of people had been wanting to do, only they were afraid to. I’m not that proud of it, okay? It was just something that needed to be done, and I did it. But everybody’s heard now, and I guess this woman...I guess she thought if I did that for Sateda, I’d be willing to do this, too."

"To steal this Scorpion Project back from – where, Vacuna? Is that what it’s called?"

He nodded. "It is a weapon," he said quietly. "If you believe in it, and I’m still not so sure I do. But everyone used to talk about it. It was a nerve poison that affected the bio components of Wraith ships. Any hit, anywhere on a Wraith ship, and it would spread – paralyze the living parts and freeze the whole system. They said one sting could down a hive ship in minutes – a dart almost instantly. It was just soldiers talking – our great hope, you know? Any day now, the Scorpion Project would be ready, and it would all...be over. I never believed it. It was just one of those things that people hang onto, to make it seem like things could be better than they are someday. But maybe the Wraith did believe in it. We should go to Vacuna, right? Just...to see."

"Might not be a bad idea," John said, as if it weren’t a foregone conclusion.

He clapped Ronon’s shoulder on the way out and said, "You shouldn’t let Rodney get to you. You know him and his mouth."

Ronon smiled, very slightly and only for a second. "Yeah, I do," he said.

*

The mission to Vacuna began to go wrong before _immediately_; there wasn’t even an official mission on the schedule yet, just John’s "So we’re gonna find a time to go check on that thing" to Elizabeth and her sage nod in return, when Teyla cornered him alone and in that exquisitely polite way of hers, declined to set one toe on Vacuna.

"I will not be an asset to this mission," she said. "The Vacunese keep their women sequestered, and they will not be pleased if I am present."

"Well, that’s bullshit," John said mildly. "They’ll just have to get over it, because you’re part of the team and we’re all going."

"I appreciate your loyalty, as always, John, but it is unwise of you to jeopardize the negotiations for no good reason. Halling has had dealings with the Vacunese in the past; he can substitute for me on this journey."

They spent the rest of the day arguing about it in fits and starts, until John was even desperate enough to flat-out order her to go, which only brought about a raised eyebrow that pretty clearly established just where John and his orders fit into the grand scheme of things.

So they went without Teyla, and John knew that was only asking for chaos. Not to knock Halling, but he was a rookie, and not Teyla, who always knew what to do and who never let anything take her completely by surprise. John felt like he was stepping through the Stargate without his lucky left sock, or his _arm_. It was just an open invitation for craziness.

She went with them to the Gateroom and went through everyone’s packs, testing the straps and checking inventory with the stoic but faintly terrified air of a mother sending her three least civilized children off to the first day of school. "The Vacunese are a strong people," she said. "Their ways are strange, but many of them have served as mercenaries on other worlds, so they are perhaps more cosmopolitan than they will seem on first sight. They value discipline and formality; they consider humor to be highly intimate, so please, Colonel– "

"Right, no untoward advances. No snappy comebacks without a condom."

"_Colonel_."

"That was it! I’m just getting it out of my system; I’m done now."

"You warn him but not me?" Rodney said. "I choose to take that personally! I’m at least as funny as Colonel Sheppard; mine is a much drier wit – more sophisticated, one might say– "

"It’ll be fine," Ronon said. "I was in Atlantis a month and a half before I even realized either of them thought they were being funny."

Teyla looked worriedly at Halling. "Perhaps I should...."

Yeah, John thought, perhaps you _should_. But he did the responsible thing and said, "This is totally under control. We’re gonna go in, make nice with the scary men, steal some military secrets; we’ll be home by lunch."

"We’re never home by lunch," Rodney grumbled.

And then, because Teyla had learned all her briefing techniques from Elizabeth, there was one more thing. "The Vacunese, as I have indicated, have severely limited contact with women on their own planet," she said. "They believe the influence of women is detrimental to a warrior’s strength and courage."

"They don’t really believe that," Ronon said. "You should see them when they’re off-world."

Teyla nodded without really paying much attention to him. "On their own world, however, their laws are quite strict. I do not wish for you to be startled if you see.... You must understand that...it is their way to...choose their intimate companions from among the ranks of their own. That is– "

"What are you telling me this for?" John said. "Their intimate companions are none of my business."

"I am aware that the warriors of your world have certain taboos...."

"Yeah, but not _me_." Nobody had ever really mistaken John for the kind of guy who could get all worked up about – well, much of anything, actually, but certainly not...that kind of thing. "I’m not – whatever makes them happy. Happy and well-laid is exactly how I like my native populations. So – wait, I get the ‘don’t be a smartass’ speech _and_ the ‘don’t have a heterosexual freak-out’ speech? What about Darryl and my other brother Darryl back there?"

"I’m Canadian," Rodney said smugly, because right, _Canadian_, Canadian was definitely the word that came to mind last time Rodney had gotten utterly smashed and waxed eloquent about Zelenka’s big, giant brain and some asinine theory about how men who wore glasses were better in bed because their other senses were keener.

"I’ve served with lots of Vacunese," Ronon said. "They’re okay."

"As long as I don’t have to have sex with any of them," John said, "I don’t foresee any problems."

"Why would you have to have sex with them?" Rodney asked, apparently genuinely curious.

John gestured loosely in the air and said, "Just...I don’t know. To escape...something, or something."

"This is the kind of thing you worry about when we go off-world?"

"Yes, Rodney, it’s right up there with dysentery, Wraith suckage, and having my consciousness downloaded into your brain: random alien molestation." Actually, when he said it out loud like that, it sounded a little less absurd than he meant for it to. He had been the victim of six separate counts of random ass-grabbing in the three years he’d been in the Pegasus Galaxy, so it was really only a matter of degree. "Can we get out of here sometime today?"

*

The Vacunese were pleased to see them – John thought. It was hard to tell what "pleased" looked like, but they sent a heavily armed party to meet them at the Gate, and the only weapon that was drawn was a sword that the spokesman of the group thrust into the dirt at John’s feet. He placed his hand on the hilt and said, "We welcome you as guests, if you come in brotherhood. My death will come swiftly if I tarnish my sword with falsehood."

"Uh," John said. "Thank you. We’re very friendly. Hi."

Rodney gave him a look that implied he was in deep awe of John’s ineptitude; it was nice to be admired for something, John figured. Ronon ignored him entirely, possibly thinking that the Vacunese might think John was just a hitchhiker if nobody made eye contact with him. Halling wrapped his hand around the hilt of the sword and said, "We do come in brotherhood; the Fathers of Light grant our prayer for peace between true warriors. Our deaths will come swiftly if I tarnish this sword with falsehood."

That was when John realized that this was going to be an even more boring planet than Teyla implied.

One interesting thing did happen, during the usual round of introductions. When Halling got down the line to Ronon, all six men in the welcoming committee jerked in surprise and murmured softly amongst themselves, much to Ronon’s obvious discomfort. The leader, a twenty-something guy with a long blond braid and a nasty-looking scar on his chin, gripped Ronon’s hand between both of his and said, "We are honored, greatly honored to have the Avenger of Sateda among us."

"You have a _superhero_ name?" Rodney said, clearly torn between mercilessly mocking this development and being vaguely impressed by it.

"It’s – no, I’m not– " he muttered helplessly.

But the guy – Storis? Stenis? – said, "We honor his name on Vacuna – Ronon Dex, who executed one of the greatest traitors to humanity in our lifetimes, the man whose soul bears the weight of the thousands of honorable men slain on Sateda. Your deeds will not soon be forgotten, brother."

"Great," Ronon said dryly. "Thanks."

"Looking forward to hearing that story," John said under his breath as they followed the advance guard back to the main Vacunese settlement.

"Shot somebody," Ronon grumbled back in the same low register. "Now you’ve heard it."

The Vacunese lived in pretty rough conditions – wooden lean-tos with bedrolls on the ground, water from pumps and no such thing as a shower, but whatever impulses they had toward manly asceticism didn’t seem to extend to their food, which started coming in the early afternoon and looked like it was never going to stop; John didn’t know if they would have been given the deluxe treatment without a celebrity on their team or not, but it couldn’t have hurt. John and Halling did the possibility-of-mutually-beneficial-trade-arrangements song and dance, while Ronon and Rodney (their innate dislike of human contact apparently translating just fine into "discipline and formality") sucked up plate after plate of food, all of it drowning in thick sauces – apparently, the four food groups on Vacuna were cream, sugar, gravy, and more gravy. Oh, and beer, obviously – what would the Man Planet be without beer? It was all good enough that Rodney didn’t even whine about having to sit on the ground all evening.

Sometime after dark, when John thought he would probably never be able to eat again, he leaned back on his elbows and stared across the thick layer of picnic blankets and food, marveling at the way Ronon and Rodney were still packing the food away. They seemed to have developed a system: Ronon tried a bite of something new and reported on it, then Rodney tried a spoonful of it off his plate, some serious-looking discussion ensued, Rodney sampled a few more bites off Ronon’s plate, and then he would decide it was good enough to get his own serving. John couldn’t help grinning at the two of them; if they collaborated as intently on missions as they did on their menu choices....

It was a relief to see them bonding, finally – Ronon had been on the team for almost a year before Rodney even seemed convinced he was more of an asset than an extra kevlar vest would have been, and Ronon had always liked everyone on Atlantis pretty much the same way: twenty-five feet away from him unless he had permission to kick their ass. Now.... Well, it was a weird friendship, no question about that, but on the other hand John had often thought that all of Rodney’s friendships were sort of unlikely when you stopped to think about it. His list of irritating personal habits went on longer than freaking _War and Peace_, and yet somehow sooner or later, everyone found it too exhausting to defend themselves against the onslaught of Rodney. It was easier just to decide he was your friend than to be constantly frustrated by the fact that you weren’t allowed to murder him, and then that tended to turn into actually liking the guy. John couldn’t explain it rationally, but Rodney had more friends than practically anybody on Atlantis, as if maybe if you went three hundred and sixty degrees past friendly and likeable, you wound up back in the same place.

"No," Ronon was saying when John finally got up and paced around the banqueting area to grab another spot closer to them. He put his hand between Rodney’s and the bowl, pushing it gently away.

"It smells cinnamony," Rodney said, making another try for it.

Ronon blocked his hand again. "It’s got kind of a spice to it, but it’s sour underneath. I wouldn’t trust it."

"Dammit," Rodney sighed wistfully. "If it’s anything like the rest of the food here, it might be worth the risk...."

"‘S not your day to die, McKay."

"Hey," John said quietly, and Rodney looked over like he was noticing John crouched there for the first time. "What do we know about this data?"

"It’s coming along," Rodney said with his mouth full. "I’d know more if I could just ask – oh, or better yet, if we could get Ronon to ask, because they _love_ him here. If they had closets, I’d suspect some of them had posters of Ronon on the door."

"No. The sooner they figure out what we’re really here after, the less chance they’re going to give us to get near it."

"Well, the chances are whatever data they took from Sateda, it’s been entered on the temple mainframe. They do have computer technology, they just don’t put much stock in it. Hitting your enemies with a rock is virtually foolproof by comparison, I suppose. But their religious leaders like to collect information from other societies – from what I can tell, they believe that the Ancients are someday going to come drifting down from their ascended state– " Here Rodney made ostentatious fluttering gestures with his hands, as if Ancients were falling gently from the sky like snow, "and want to know what they’ve missed."

"So they don’t use this stuff," John said. "They’re just...archiving it? That’s good; that means they’re not likely to notice you’ve been getting into their system and screwing around with things."

"Well, sure, but the bad news is that there’s no justification to screw around with things at all. The mainframe just sits locked up in the temple; I doubt most people here have ever even seen the thing, which makes it difficult to come up with some reason they should let me anywhere near it."

"You’ll think of something," John said.

Rodney rolled his eyes. "Of course I will. Because stealth and subterfuge are clearly my areas of expertise."

After the feast, which had started out something like a late lunch and expanded well past midnight-snack territory, they were shown to one of the few actually indoor buildings, a two-room job that even had furniture in it – including two good-sized four-poster beds. "This must be the Vacuna five-star resort experience," John said, when their hosts had left them with a carafe of water and a fruit basket in case they got hungry in the night. "Who knew joining Ronon’s entourage was the way to go in the Pegasus galaxy?"

Rodney didn’t seem to be listening to him; he was fidgeting with his backpack and glancing suspiciously back and forth between the beds. "Don’t look so nervous," Ronon said, tossing his own backpack into a corner and beginning to unstrap the sword from his back. "You get one of the beds. Nobody wants to hear about your back in the morning."

"You should take the other," John said to him.

"You have rank."

"Yeah, and you’re the one they like around here. I don’t want them to come in here in the morning, see you on the floor, and immortalize us in story and song as the Rude Bastards of Atlantis for making the great hero of– "

"Go fuck yourself," Ronon said on a resigned sigh, and John grinned. Ronon was so hard to provoke, which made the effort _so _worth it.

"These beds are big enough for two," Rodney said, sounding almost sulky about it.

"Do not mind me," Halling said. "I am as comfortable on the ground – perhaps more so."

"Nobody has to share," John said. "One night won’t bother me, either. Take the bed, enjoy it."

Rodney frowned at the bed closest to him, then tipped his head to the side in that stubborn way he had and opened his mouth to pick a fight of some kind. "Shut up, McKay," Ronon ordered, much more sharply than he’d just told John where he could stick it. "You’re drunk."

"I am not drunk," Rodney said, transferring his scowl from the inoffensive bed to Ronon.

Ronon scowled back – sharing food to getting ready to take a swing at each other in under half an hour was about par for the course for Rodney’s friendships, of course, but the whole thing still seemed weird to John. Rodney was the king of tempests in teacups, but John couldn’t even figure out what had kicked this one off. Everyone had already _agreed_ Rodney could have a damn bed, for God’s sake. "Don’t," Ronon said cryptically. "I mean it, McKay."

After a few more tense beats, Rodney’s bearing slumped out of argumentative mode, and he shook his head and grumbled something incoherent while he stripped off his outer layers and crawled into the bed in his t-shirt and boxers, twisting the wick of the oil lamp low as he did it so that the rest of them had to get ready for bed in shadows.

John had only just gotten down to a similar state of undress and laid out his bedroll when there was a soft noise at the cabin’s door. John was still reaching for his gun when the door swung open, but Ronon was sitting up in bed with his leveled at the doorway – trust Ronon to sleep in nothing but his undershorts and a sidearm.

"Hold, brother," their visitor murmured – the blond from the Gate patrol – _Steeris_, that was his name. When Ronon’s arm relaxed slightly, Steeris slipped inside and closed the door behind him, then put his ear to it and listened carefully. "I have not been followed," he said, turning back to them. "I know why you have come here."

"Do you, now?" John said.

"You have come for the Scorpion files. No, you need not speak. I am willing to be your ally in this. In fact, I argued when the files first came into our possession that they should be surrendered to one of our allies with a more refined science so that the work done on Sateda would not come to nothing. But I am the youngest among our magistrates, and my influence was small. Others feared that to disseminate the information would only lead to more destruction," he said with whole worlds of disdain in his voice. "I am shamed by the cowardice of my elder brothers."

"Don’t be," Ronon said shortly. "Live to fight again."

The look Steeris gave Ronon was grateful, and frankly admiring. Ronon’s fan club clearly had a president. "Then the time has now come to resume the battle," he said. "No one is more fit to do this thing than you; already you have avenged Sateda’s betrayal, and now you will fulfill your world’s great destiny."

"Actually," Rodney said, "that last part will be my job. All I need to know is, can you get me into the temple long enough to find the files and download them off the mainframe? It couldn’t possibly take more than three hours, at the very longest – and that’s if there’s been any kind of effort to hide it, which I doubt there has been."

Steeris frowned. "This will be difficult. There is but little traffic in and out of the temple; the high priest may come and go as he wills, but the rest of us only enter its confines on the most sacred of occasions. We celebrate the summer Feast of Stars within, but there would be no opportunity, even if you wished to wait so long, to use the equipment unobserved in such a crowd."

"_Nobody_ goes in alone?" John pressed.

"The body of one fallen in honorable combat lies in state in the inner temple for one night before it is surrendered to the waters, and men pass their wedding night within so that their union may be blessed by the Fathers of Light. These are the only occasions."

"Perfect!" John said. Man, this was almost too easy.

Rodney narrowed his eyes and said, "I am absolutely not going to fake my own death," but from his tone of voice John could tell that he was already racing down the same track John was.

"No," John said, "you’re going to marry me."

"Will this be before or after you _implode_ from your own _stupidity_?"

"Come on, Rodney, it’s the obvious solution. We’ll have the whole night alone inside the temple, free and clear; what more could you possibly ask for?"

"Yes, but – no! You’re out of your mind. I can’t possibly _marry _you."

"It’s not legally binding. Not on Atlantis, anyway."

"I...I am not certain I am prepared to profane the ritual of marriage...." Steeris began hesitantly, but John didn’t worry about that. If he could talk Rodney into this, Steeris would be small potatoes by comparison.

Rodney flung a hand in Steeris’s direction as if he were exhibit A in Rodney’s argument. "There’s a ritual, Colonel! Do you know what _kind_ of ritual? You have no idea! There could be – it could be dangerous, or, or – perverse! They’re _aliens_; I think we can rule out rice and bouquets."

"This xenophobic streak is very unbecoming on you, Rodney," John said. "Steeris, why don’t you tell us what we might be able to expect from a Vacunese wedding ceremony? I bet it’s nice, isn’t it? Comes with food?"

Steeris looked a little bit trapped, even though he still had one hand on the latch of the door. "It is simple and quite beautiful," he hedged. "The ritual itself takes place on the outer steps of the temple so it can be witnessed by all. The couple come to each other unarmed and unclothed to demonstrate their complete trust; they are painted with the traditional symbols of harmony and unity. They kneel and take oaths on the high priest’s sword, and they mingle their blood and then bind each other’s wounds, and they seal their union with a kiss. It is not a difficult ritual to perform, but the oaths are highly serious and– "

"There, you see?" John said. "Piece of cake."

"Are you even listening to this man? Bloodshed! Public nudity! Kissing! I am not kissing you naked!"

"Look, Rodney, it’s not my dream vacation either, but we’ve gone through worse. If I can cool my heels for an hour with a cockroach hanging off my neck, you can take your pants off and kiss me."

"Oh, God," Rodney groaned, dragging his hands over his face. "I can’t believe this is my _actual life_." Then he turned and snapped, "Are you going to say _anything_?" in Ronon’s direction, as if Ronon ever said anything in situations like this.

Ronon shrugged with one shoulder. "Maybe it’s.... I mean, do you have another plan?"

"You do not even have this plan," Steeris said sharply. "I will aid you in deceiving the high priest, but to allow you to swear false oaths on his holy blade and to profane the blessing of marriage itself – this I cannot agree to do."

Rodney scrubbed his hands over his face again and took a deep breath. "No," Ronon said shortly. "Don’t. You don’t want– "

"I think I do," Rodney said quietly, meeting his eyes. "I think this is important enough, don’t you?" Ronon didn’t answer, but the bend of his neck looked something like giving in. Rodney apparently thought so, too, because he looked over at Steeris and said, "We’ll do it."

"I cannot– "

"No, look, I get it, false oaths, the institution of marriage, etcetera. That’s not– It won’t be false, all right? He’s – Ronon really is my.... It won’t be a lie. You have my word."

Even the third time on replay through John’s brain, he couldn’t get that to mean anything except.... "You," he said, like an idiot. "You two? Since – are you _kidding_ me?"

"It’s my fault," Rodney said. "I’m the one who didn’t think – I said we shouldn’t tell you. It’s only been three months– "

"Six months," Ronon said under his breath, and Rodney flapped his hand in Ronon’s general direction like he always did to indicate he wasn’t about to deal with a particular distraction at that moment.

"You don’t believe me, do you?" Rodney said, and John started to say, _No, no, I definitely do_, because not even Rodney McKay was _batshit insane_ enough to come up with this concept of a torrid, clandestine affair with Ronon off the top of his head. Obviously there had to be _something_ to it. Then he realized Rodney wasn’t even talking to him.

Steeris shifted uncomfortably. "I sympathize with your sense of urgency; I wish to find a way to allow you into the temple as well, but this seems...overly convenient."

Rodney rolled his eyes, got out of bed, and walked across the space to the side of Ronon’s bed, where he cupped his hand under Ronon’s chin, tilted his face up, and kissed him hard. Personally, John felt that if anything was likely to further convince Steeris that they were lying to him it would be the way Ronon tensed up the second Rodney touched him, but maybe to the Vacunese eye it looked more like "discipline" and less like "outright terror," because it did the trick. "This is – I – everything – this is a gift from the Ancestors!" Steeris said, almost bouncing on his toes. "When my people are made aware that Ronon Dex has chosen Vacuna as the site of his wedding, there is no opportunity that will not be made available to us! I will ensure that you receive what equipment you require inside the temple. It has been long years since there has been such occasion for celebration among my people; any suspicions the other magistrates may harbor about your intentions here will be swept away by this happy news! In the morning, I will send the high priest to you prepare you for the ritual. Blessings on you both, my brothers! Tomorrow will be a great day, in love and in war alike."

"And me without a toaster oven," John said.

He had more to say – plenty more to say – but it needed to wait until Steeris was gone, and then once he was, Rodney beat him to the punch, pointing a lecturing finger at him and saying, "Don’t start. _Don’t start_. And I don’t want to hear you imply _ever again_ that you do all the grunt work on this team, because I just agreed to potentially the most bizarre and embarrassing experience of my life for the sake of this expedition."

"Forgive me," Halling said, "but I am not sure – are you entering into a legitimate marriage, or is this a ruse to secure Steeris’s cooperation?"

Rodney sat down heavily on his bed and put his forehead in his hands. "Does it matter? I need access to that computer, and obviously somebody’s going in there with me. The crucial issue is, I like my ratio of platonic teammates to teammates who’ve kissed me while naked exactly the way it is, and this is the only way I can see to preserve it."

"And this is okay with you, too?" John said to Ronon, who still looked slightly panicky, in his quiet way.

Ronon narrowed his eyes slightly and said, "I don’t want _you_ to do it instead, if that’s your better plan."

"No, whoa, hey. Believe me, he’s all yours." And clearly that was the last possible word on the subject, because they all went to bed after that – Rodney and Ronon in their separate beds with their backs toward each other.

John wouldn’t exactly say he’d _anticipated_ any of ths, because Jesus Christ, but on the other hand, he did feel a little bit Cassandra-ish. He was definitely never setting one foot through the Stargate without Teyla, ever again.

*

"Hey, it’s better than getting fitted for a tux," Colonel Sheppard said with that insane, narcoleptic good cheer that inevitably made Rodney want to strangle someone. "Those things are never comfortable, and don’t even get me started on the shoes."

"Yes, but at least you know all the friends you’ve emotionally blackmailed into being ushers and groomsmen are suffering through the same thing," Rodney said through gritted teeth. It wasn’t that the cool paint and the soft brush tracing down his spine was uncomfortable, precisely. As a matter of fact, it was quite a bit more...comfortable than Rodney would prefer to be at the moment. "I don’t see _you_ getting ready to go out in front of four hundred strangers in nothing but body paint and the tattered shreds of your professional dignity."

"You are still squirming," the man with the paintbrush said mildly. Rodney resisted the urge to explain that he wasn’t _squirming_, he was _shuddering_, because dear God. If he weren’t about fifteen minutes away from holy matrimony, he would definitely at least expect a complete stranger who dragged soft, furry objects all over his body to buy him dinner afterwards.

"I don’t think I’m asking for too much; I just want to get married in pants! More importantly, I want this man to quit tickling my ass with that thing!"

"Rodney," the Colonel said calmly, "it’s totally normal to be nervous."

"Is it totally normal to want your best man _dead_?" Rodney growled. 

But truthfully, Rodney suspected that it was, and in fact that might be the true purpose of having a best man at all. Because if he didn’t have Colonel Sheppard, all smugness and amusement and barely contained mockery, then he wouldn’t have anything to be pissed off about at all, and he’d have to start focusing on other things. Like the fact that hundreds of strange aliens were waiting outside right now to watch him plight his troth, _naked_, to a man he still had trouble convincing himself he was actually sleeping with.

_It’s not real_, he told himself for about the trillionth time today, closing his eyes and letting his forehead press into the headrest of the table they had him laid out over while he got strange gobbledegook painted all over his back and arms. He supposed he’d be married on Vacuna, which was fairly irrelevant since it was his fervent hope never to have to return to Vacuna, but in the real world, in Rodney’s world, you needed a license to be married, not just a high priest waving a sword and intoning self-important quasi-mystical foolishness over your head. At best this was only a religious ceremony, and even if Rodney were religious, this wouldn’t be his religion. The whole thing bore only a passing resemblance to real marriage, which was a contract with very specific...tax breaks and whatnot. Whatever it was that made people decide to entangle themselves so tightly that it inevitably took a squadron of lawyers, a small personal fortune, and a demolished heart to cut through the knots.

He and Ronon had a much better system than that, one that rested squarely on the firm foundation of not discussing their relationship with anybody, including each other. Yes, all right, he’d been _toying_ with the idea, lately, of looking for some apropos moment to say that – to tell Ronon.... But he wanted to be sure they were safely through the sex-addled, emotionally unbalanced new-relationship phase before he committed to any particular, hard-to-retract words, just in case these feelings were nothing more than a particularly heady and rarefied variation on the euphoria that always came from sneaking around and having fantastically exploratory, inventive sex with someone who smiled at you afterwards like he thought _he_ was the one who’d gotten lucky. That was a perfectly fine and noble emotional state in and of itself, and Rodney didn’t want to muddle everything up with labels, and the ensuing expectations, that didn’t fit.

_I love you_, he rehearsed mentally, and it just didn’t sound right. It didn’t sound like _him_, even though – even though it was him, possibly, almost certainly. It just seemed so flat, so open to abuse by projecting whatever you wanted onto it, and Rodney was a scientist and valued specificity, particles and equations and definitions, things that meant something to some degree of certainty. Yet every verifiable thing he could think of to say instead – _you fascinate me, all those odd layers, your wit and your anger and your passion under all that steadiness and silence, I can’t puzzle through you, which of course makes me desperate to keep trying – it’s irrational how safe I feel with you, because I know you can’t always protect me, I know you haven’t always been able to protect me, but something about you makes me think constantly about my future and never about my possible lack thereof – everything about you succeeds where everything else I’ve ever tried has always failed, you’re the perfect cure, you touch me and I don’t feel weak or vulnerable or allergic or frightened or alone, I feel as strong as I did on the enzyme and ten times happier_ – all of it was too much and yet also not quite full or complete enough, which was possibly exactly why the umbrella concept of falling in love had been invented.

He was certainly no closer now to figuring out what any of that had to do with marriage than he ever had been before. Nothing, so far as Rodney could see. Or if anything, getting married before they’d had a chance to work through this part of their relationship, before he’d even relaxed into it enough to say those particular, hard-to-retract words in some kind of moderately natural setting – well, it was like publishing too early on a theory, wasn’t it? You wanted your data to be unimpeachable first, you wanted a chance to iron out the inevitable kinks yourself before you gave the uninitiated a chance to savage your precious work....

"I don’t know if I can do this," he said.

"Now, Rodney," Colonel Sheppard said, all falsely, toothily soothing, "that’s just the cold feet talking. I know you’re nervous about the wedding, but you just gotta keep your eye on the ball. Focus on the _wedding night_."

The man with the paintbrush chuckled, and Rodney wanted them both dead. "It is always so with the newly married," he said. "All my work goes to waste within the hour. But this is as it should be; I will be proudest of my work in the morning, when I see it smeared across your husband’s hands."

Rodney banged his forehead gently on the headrest. "Keep it together, Rodney," Sheppard ordered.

"I think I should talk to Ronon before– "

"There is no time," the man said. "The sigils are complete, and elsewhere your betrothed will also be finishing his preparations. The ritual must take place in the light of the evening’s first stars. All are gathered to wait for you before the temple, even now."

"Great," Sheppard said. "Let’s get this show on the road, then."

"I...." Rodney said. Oh, _God_. Of course it would be _now_. "I’m not ready yet. Just...just give me a minute."

"Rodney, come on! The sooner we start, the sooner you’ll be done with the whole– "

"I just need a minute or two to pull myself together, all right?" Rodney snapped. "Is that too goddamned much to ask on the happiest day of my life?"

The man with the hellishly not-unpleasant paintbrush chuckled again, even more dirtily knowing than before. The whole planet was perverted; he hadn’t noticed last night, he’d been dazzled by the cheese dips, but they were all seriously dysfunctional. "Tonight is not the night to be shy; it is a sign of good fortune to come that you go to meet your new husband showing your eagerness."

"Showing your– Oh," Sheppard said abruptly. "Oh. Uh." Rodney smacked his head harder on the headrest, but unfortunately, still no concussion. "Hey...you heard him. It’s good luck – you know, like something borrowed, something...."

"_I hate you_. Honestly, I hate you."

"It’s okay, Rodney," he said in a different tone, one that for once in Sheppard’s life actually did sound a little bit reassuring. "You can do this. Nobody’s going to think there’s anything, you know, weird about it. Hell, they’d probably think there was something wrong with you if you weren’t...eager. Have you picked up on the fact that this entire planet wants to jump your boyfriend’s bones?"

"I have, actually," Rodney said, his mood brightening ever so slightly. "And I do enjoy being envied...."

"Right! So you just have to...go out there and show them that geniuses always score all the best babes. Like Einstein and Marilyn."

"I don’t think Einstein ever had Marilyn."

"Yeah, but didn’t she say once that she thought he was the sexiest man alive?"

"Maybe she did and maybe she didn’t, but you’ll notice she married the baseball player."

"And you’ll notice there are no baseball players getting married tonight. Just you, buddy."

So maybe Sheppard wasn’t the absolute _worst_ best man in the history of the galaxy. "Fine," Rodney muttered as he sat up, "but you’re not allowed to look."

"I’ll show some restraint," Sheppard promised.

They gave Sheppard a giant battle-axe and sent him ahead to, God, Rodney wasn’t sure, make sure the area was secure from monsters and whatnot, which was apparently the traditional duty of a Vacunese wedding attendant. Frankly, Rodney would trust his security to Ronon, even naked and unarmed, before Sheppard with an axe – Sheppard was definitely more of a P-90 sort of man – but it wasn’t like he expected anything in that happened in a religious ceremony to be practical in any way.

The last rays of the sun were directly in Rodney’s eyes when it was time for him to emerge from the waiting-hut and climb the dozen steps that led to the front doors of the temple, which was fine, because he didn’t really need to see all the people that were staring at him anyway. _Just get through it_, he reminded himself. _At least there won’t be photographs...._

When his vision cleared at the top of the stairs, he could see Sheppard and Steeris (who had gone on and on like being Ronon’s attendant was the greatest honor of his entire life solely because it was bestowed upon him by Ronon, even though it was Sheppard’s idea and Ronon had only said, "Yeah, sure") guarding the temple doors with their axes, and the high priest in the middle of the landing, leaning his frail-looking frame on his four-foot broadsword. There were two cushions by his feet, and Rodney, who’d spent the entire morning having the order of ceremony hammered into his head as if he were a particularly backward five-year-old, knelt on his.

Ronon was a moment later climbing the stairs; maybe someone had decided that the Avenger of Sateda deserved a grand entrance, or maybe it took longer to paint him up than it did Rodney, on account of all that extra surface area to cover. Unlike Rodney, whose dick had gone to hovering uncertainly at half-mast from a combination of nerves and, oh, _utter, blind terror_, Ronon....

Well, it wasn’t as if Ronon had anything to be shy _about_, was it? "I never knew you were such an exhibitionist," Rodney murmured to him as he knelt down on the other cushion.

Ronon gave him a quick flash of helpless grin. "Guy told me it was good luck."

Before Rodney could respond to that, the high priest hitched up his giant sword and placed the blade flat between their bodies. Rodney only hesitated for a moment before wrapping his hands gingerly around the blade – which, needless to say, was not of the blunt stage-prop variety – and Ronon placed his hands further out on the blade, bracketing Rodney’s. Where their wrists brushed against each other, Rodney felt a warm spark climb up the back of his arms.

"Before you pledge yourselves to one another," the high priest said in a wavering old-man voice, "you must cast out such impurities as will be poison to your unity and trust. These are the Three Renunciations, and without these sacrifices, neither the stars nor the Ancestors nor any power in the universe can prepare you for what lies ahead. The First Renunciation is the Renunciation of Greed. Do you here on this holy blade swear that you will surrender all rights to such titles and property as you may hold in your own name, herewith possessing nothing on your own behalf, but only what you may possess jointly and in common?"

"I do swear it," Rodney said, noticeably louder than Ronon did. Damn his tendency to mumble when he was nervous; now the whole planet was probably going to think Rodney had dragged him unwilling to the altar.

"The Second Renunciation is the Renunciation of Lust. Do you here on this holy blade swear that your flesh and your pleasure are no longer your own, but that you hold these things in trust, each for the other, forsaking your right to indulge your body’s desires with any man save the one to whom you here surrender yourself?"

Interesting that the terms of Vacunese fidelity apparently demanded that he stay away from other men, but didn’t mention women at all; Rodney wondered if all those womanizing off-world mercenaries Ronon had known were young men sowing their wild oats or husbands with a loophole, or if the loophole was only meant to make sure they could still legally knock up the absentee Vacunese women with the next generation of–

His wandering thoughts froze up abruptly as he registered the rather homicidal glare Ronon was giving him. "Oh! Yes," Rodney said hurriedly. "I do swear it." _Sorry_, he mouthed at Ronon, who cut his eyes scornfully at Rodney but looked a little less ready to yank Rodney’s potentially philandering dick off right here and now.

"The Third Renunciation is the Renunciation of Power. Do you here on this holy blade swear that, as no partnership can remain where force is exercised, you will accept no position of command over one another, nor stand in any service beneath such command, exercising only such rights and privileges as may be freely exchanged in mutual good faith and devotion?"

"I do swear it," Rodney said. Ronon’s voice seemed stronger this time; either he was getting more comfortable with the whole situation or there was something peculiarly impressive to the military mind about giving up your right to pull rank on each other.

"Then, free of these things which would render you unfit to enter the blessed state of marriage, I do pronounce you purified and prepared to bind yourselves to one another."

When the sword was gone, temple fetch-and-carriers hurried forward and placed a small table between Rodney and Ronon, with two long strips of white cloth, another white cloth soaking in a bowl of water, and an insanely evil-looking hook-ended knife. Rodney devoutly hoped someone had boiled the thing and used the disinfectant wipes he’d given them, but in his heart of hearts he knew that he’d been ignored. Pegasus was, by and large, an irredeemably unsanitary galaxy.

Ronon extended his left hand, palm up. Rodney supported it from beneath with his own left hand and reached for the knife with his right, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to.... He looked up into Ronon’s eyes and immediately felt foolish in the face of the utter calm he saw there. Had he really imagined a little cut on the hand would intimidate Ronon?

Still, he was so careful with the knife that he barely broke Ronon’s skin at all, so that the solid X that was supposed to appear didn’t; blood came to the surface in strung-together dots and pink, angry scratches. "Pussy," Ronon said under his breath as he took the knife out of Rodney’s hand.

"You’re actually being a jerk to me in the middle of our wedding," Rodney marveled. "That’s actually what you’re– ow! Did they tell you to _saw my hand in half_? What’s the matter with you?" But he broke off breathlessly when Ronon gripped his hand, startled by the fresh surge of hot pain and the unexpected intimacy of feeling his pulse in the palm of his hand, held securely by Ronon’s strong fingers. "Your wounds become my wounds," Rodney said along with Ronon.

Ronon didn’t let go of his hand; he leaned forward at the same time his right hand on the back of Rodney’s head pulled his head forward too and claimed Rodney’s mouth with his own. That was the only possible term for it: a claim, hot and confident and possessive. For one insane second, Rodney completely forgot where they were, what they were in the middle of, and he whimpered low in his throat and pressed back into the kiss, just managing to stop himself before he grabbed Ronon’s shoulder to hold him in place. Only the sheer force of the repetition they’d put Rodney through earlier made him able to say as they pulled apart, "Your joy becomes my joy." He thought he sounded slightly drunk saying it, while Ronon rumbled the words sexily, damn him.

Rodney’s hand was now not only sweat-slick but smeared generously with blood, mainly his own, and he stared blankly down at it. Bloodshed, public nudity, kissing.... All right, he’d survived all that, he was through the worst of it. They were almost at the end.

"Is there one here whom you would choose to dress your injury?" the high priest asked.

Feeling a bit like he did in that state between sleeping and waking, Rodney said, "Yes, yes, uh, him."

"You must say his name," the high priest prodded, but he looked gently amused, so fortunately this wasn’t the type of ritual that required some kind of human sacrifice if the participants screwed it up.

"Ronon. Ronon Dex," Rodney said.

When Ronon touched his palm with the wet cloth, a blissfully medicinal fizz and sting went through Rodney’s hand and he sighed in sudden relief. Gay marriage _and_ antiseptic; surprisingly, this was turning out to be one of the more civilized planets in the Pegasus galaxy. Ronon wiped his hand clean with soft, almost unbearably tender touches that raised goosebumps all over Rodney’s skin, and God but Ronon was more startlingly beautiful than ever when he was lost in concentration like this, cradling Rodney’s hand and bending close to it so that he could see in the twilight. It was all Rodney could do not to reach out and smooth his other hand over Ronon’s hair.

As Ronon began to wrap the dry bandage around Rodney’s hand, the high priest laid his hand on top of Rodney’s head and said, "Henceforward let neither pride nor fear, wrath nor shame, prevent you from turning to the one you have chosen in your time of need." Rodney couldn’t remember if he was supposed to say anything to that, so he nodded just in case. Ronon brushed a quick kiss over Rodney’s fingers before he released his hand.

Rodney had never claimed to be much of a medic, so he tuned out the ritual words while they were being addressed to Ronon and applied his attention to bandaging Ronon’s hand; too late, he realized he’d started doing it even before the high priest had finished asking Ronon if he wanted it done. Well, these things were never an exact science.

"Rodney McKay," he heard Ronon say, and his hands paused for just a moment as he let himself listen to that, really _listen_ to that. They’d spent so much time over the last few months carefully saying...such elliptical things, murmured hints and breathy whispers that hardly even confessed and certainly didn’t identify. _There you are_, they would say, in a particular way, or _how is this, good?_ or if they were absolutely convinced of their privacy they might say, _again, please, yes, *again.*_ What they never said was...anything like that. Their names, this choice, made aloud in ways that couldn’t be pushed aside or pretended away later on.

Rodney knew there were things they should have said before they got to this point, but he hadn’t realized that was one of them.

"These things you have been to one another tonight," Rodney heard the high priest saying from a great distance away, "a danger, a delight, a comfort, and these things you will now be to one another until the end of your days. Carry the blessings of the people with you into the eye of the Fathers of Light, that they might witness the unity you have forged and shed their grace upon it."

Rodney thought that Ronon put his hands under his elbows to help him to his feet, he thought the Vacunese crowd below cheered wildly for them both; he thought Steeris and Sheppard pulled open the heavy temple doors and that Steeris whispered, "I have made your bedding ready myself; you will find everything you need," but nothing seemed real to him until the doors clanged shut again and he was standing in a broad rotunda with a vaulted, transparent ceiling that was beginning to let in the light of the stars. He slid his hands up Ronon’s arms, striping them with paint, and fumbled for something to say. There was too much, entirely too much to choose from.

Ronon smiled indulgently at him and placed a chaste kiss on his forehead. "Mission first," he said. "Then everything else."

"No, no – everything else sounds really good right now," Rodney protested. There was no bed in the temple, but the center of the floor was dominated by a nest of pillows and blankets nearly half a meter thick, a sight with much greater appeal to Rodney at that moment than the quietly blinking lights on the computer equipment against the wall.

Ronon kissed him again, not so chastely, but then he said, "No, you better do it now," and when Rodney opened his mouth to argue again, he grinned and added, "When I’m done, you won’t be thinking about science."

"I can always think about science."

"What is that, a dare?"

"No– Actually, yes. Please feel free to take it exactly that way," Rodney said and tried to kiss him again.

He almost succeeded, too, but at the last moment Ronon took a ragged breath and pushed him away, growling, "You’re so fucking stubborn. Get the data."

The equipment was bundled up inside the blankets, stitched into what looked like a harmless rumple of soft red cloth that Rodney just knew was going to feel blissful under his hands, his knees, his forehead, elbows, shoulders, under everything, because Ronon didn’t believe in one position when you can try four in a row, _Christ_, concentrate, concentrate.... They crawled through the nest together, flipping everything over and running their hands through it to make sure they had all the cables and converters, and when Rodney stood up, Ronon stood up with him and wrapped a blanket around his waist, the soft folds of it settling against his thighs and his cock. He blinked up at Ronon, a little bit puzzled, and Ronon smiled with only his eyes as he knotted it tightly. "You don’t like being naked."

"Nothing personal," Rodney said. He wasn’t anti-nudity _per se_. He was a big, big fan of it while he was in the shower, for example, or getting laid. He’d just never understood people like Ronon, who could happily wander around their apartments, check their e-mail, dust, whatever they needed to do, without feeling the urge to put some clothes on. Not that Rodney was complaining; he just never understood it.

"I know. ‘S just how you are." He cocked his head, considering, and said, "That’s why you don’t like people knowing about us. That’s how it makes you feel." Rodney put one arm around Ronon’s shoulders and kissed his jaw roughly; Ronon slid his hand over Rodney’s shoulder. "Don’t worry," he said low in Rodney’s ear. "Nobody – it doesn’t have to leave here. I bet Sheppard doesn’t even want to put it in the report, but if he does, I’ll make him rethink that."

"It’s probably not smart to threaten our CO."

"I don’t care. I’m not going to let you be embarrassed because of me."

"Oh, _God_. No." Rodney kissed his jaw again, then his neck, pressing closer to him. "No, no, I wouldn’t be. You think I’m _ashamed_ of you? As far as bragging rights go, you’re right up there with a Nobel. A Rhodes scholarship at the _very_ least."

"If you call me the Avenger of Sateda," he said, "I’m going home right now."

"You’re not going anywhere. Lie down."

Rodney was never sure exactly how he got the compression recorder hooked up with his hands shaking and his eyes refusing to focus. Luckily, navigating through the system was child’s play; it wasn’t exactly Ancient technology, but it was more or less fully compatible with it, in those broad-stroke ways that most Pegasus technology was, barring the handful of truly obscure developments that had been made in deeply isolated societies. He wasn’t completely sure how to identify the files he needed (unfortunately, none of them were conveniently labeled SCORPION PROJECT or STEAL THIS TO DEFEAT THE WRAITH), but he had enough space to record extra, so he just set the damn thing to download everything that had been added to the hard drive in the last ten years. "Everything’s going to be encrypted to hell and back anyway," he grumbled aloud. "Codebreaking in a language I can’t read is going to be a barrel of monkeys, I can tell you that much. I’ll have to commandeer every mathematician I can lay my hands on once we get home, and I’ll probably need your help, too." Ronon made what sounded like a grunt of agreement.

"There," he announced, after what felt like six hours and according to the time-stamps was about twenty minutes. "Now it just needs to do its...."

He wasn’t sure if he’d ever imagined that real life could contain anything as impossibly decadent as Ronon sprawled out comfortably on velvety red, the jewel tones picking up the gold all over his skin – all over except for his cock, still hard and red-velvet dark against his flat stomach. One of his hands was behind his head so that when he turned to look at Rodney, he was smiling at him over the curve of his bicep, and the fingertips of his other hand were dipping leisurely into one of the bowls of food set out for them. Rodney almost tripped over his blanket on the way over to him, and he didn’t even give a damn.

It was just possible to spread his legs far enough to settle across Ronon’s waist; Ronon pulled his bandaged left hand from behind his head and worked at untying the knot he’d tied himself. Rodney glanced over for a quick inventory of the food (just out of curiosity) – a bowl of those plum-like fruits, one of cubed bread and cheese, one of something spongey and dark that he expected was dessert, but the fourth bowl, the one Ronon had been investigating, was liquid, was–

"Oh," Rodney breathed as Ronon dribbled some of it off his fingertips and onto Rodney’s collarbone, thick and slippery and warm and _oh_. Ronon finished untying the blanket and tossed it away, the bandage on his hand scraping uncomfortably against Rodney’s hip while his other hand closed slick and hot around Rodney’s cock. "That’s a really big bowl."

"I noticed that, too," Ronon said. "You think they think we’re virgins?"

"I’m trying not to think what disgusting, voyeuristic fantasies the Vacunese may harbor about you."

Ronon smiled wolfishly, bracing his free hand against the small of Rodney’s back and pulling himself into a sitting position that brought his mouth too close to Rodney’s _not_ to kiss. "First hour married, and you’re already acting jealous," he said against Rodney’s lips. "Or you just telling me _you_ have a fantasy that you’re my first?"

Well, he hadn’t _before_. Rodney shifted his weight back from his knees, settling his ass more securely against Ronon’s cock, and said, "We haven’t actually...been together long enough yet for me to start making up far-fetched sexual scenarios. Pretty much...being in bed with you at all still is my fantasy."

He closed his eyes when Ronon dipped his fingers back into the oil, and then opened them immediately in surprise when he felt those heated fingers settle low in the back of his neck, skidding over skin at first, drawing a long, wet crescent. Then his fingers got better purchase, sinking firmly into muscle and against bone – both hands now, and Rodney’s head fell back limply. The heat of the oil seemed to be seeping through him, warming him inside, too, and all that on top of the heat of Ronon’s breath on his face and the slow strength of his hands curling against taut muscles and sensitized skin. "Please don’t stop," he said hoarsely when Ronon paused.

"I think," Ronon mused softly, "if this were real? If you really were mine, I wouldn’t let you get this tense. I wouldn’t let you treat yourself the way you do."

Rodney shivered convulsively and dragged a kiss over Ronon’s temple. "They say one orgasm is the equivalent of two Valium," he said, not entirely sure why he wasn’t saying the thing he was really thinking, which was, _What makes you think I’m not yours?_

Slowly, slowly, as Ronon’s hands transmuted the knots in Rodney’s neck and shoulders into purring bliss, he started to work down Rodney’s back, dipping his hands in the oil again – the oil that seemed to be getting warmer, not cooler, so that it was almost a prickle of pain against his skin until Ronon’s hands smoothed it away as his mouth worked hard along Rodney’s throat. When one of Ronon’s hands touched the cleft of Rodney’s ass and the other slid around to his stomach, Rodney could see that it was mottled black and indigo from the combined paint and oil. "You want me to fuck you?" Ronon asked, nuzzling Rodney’s bottom lip. "Want me to make you come?"

"You know, there’s really – nothing – more obnoxious than one of those men who knows how – unbelievably sexy he is, asking you to dwell on the point for him." Ronon smoothed his tongue across the inside of Rodney’s lip. "Okay, not nothing," Rodney admitted. Ronon pulled his head back slightly with a frown. "Not nothing!" Rodney said, clutching at his arms. "Many, many things are more obnoxious, in fact. Practically everything, and have I mentioned how unbelievably sexy– "

"Just a weird way to put it: those men. You don’t count yourself?" Rodney shrugged, and Ronon took hold of his wrist and moved his hand against Ronon’s cock. Rodney’s hand closed around it on sheer instinct, and he heard himself make a breathy, appreciative noise at the way it felt in his hand, heat-flushed and thick and wet at the tip. He slid his hand up and down with a light touch, and Ronon leaned in to growl into his ear, "Feel how sexy I think you are?" 

"Oh. Ah, mhmm," Rodney agreed incoherently, because he wasn’t sure how inherently meaningful being able to get a man hard when you were squirming naked in his lap actually was, but it was a nice sentiment and Rodney wasn’t about to complain. He knelt up higher and put his bandaged hand on the side of Ronon’s face, his thumb smoothing over Ronon’s cheekbone, and said all in a rush so he didn’t run out of air first, "It’s not a sign of low self-esteem, you’re just so much more beautiful than me, it’s just scientific fact, you’re more beautiful than _anybody_. You could have anyone, anyone, I love that you’re happy with me, believe me, my self-esteem has never been higher."

And Ronon knew exactly what the shift in position meant, like he always knew exactly what Rodney needed next. He dipped his fingers in the oil again, in and out so quickly that he made the bowl spin a little bit as he pulled away and had to stop and steady it, then slid a finger inside Rodney, and a second while he was still panting and mumbling yeses through kisses all over Ronon’s face. He let his mouth linger underneath Ronon’s left eye, playfully tracing between the adorable little moles there with his tongue, then accidentally biting down when Ronon pushed another finger in and twisted slowly.

"On my back," Rodney said breathlessly. "I want to look at you while– "

"No," Ronon said. "Just like this."

It wasn’t the easiest position in the world. Getting into it wasn’t hard, with Ronon’s hand on his tailbone steadying him and his other hand, along with Rodney’s, wrapped around the base of his cock to keep it in place while Rodney found his angle above and slid down around it. It was moving afterwards that was difficult; the blankets were so thick and yielding that Rodney’s heels just sank deeper and deeper, never finding solid ground underneath to push against. Ronon’s stretched thighs trembled underneath him, and he leaned back and anchored his elbows as best he could in the velvety quicksand and took the lead, pushing his hips up and up through sheer strength and stubbornness. Rodney’s hands couldn’t find purchase either, scrabbling over the sweat on Ronon’s chest, the paint on his shoulders, so that it was all too torturously slow and shallow and ragged, with no way to force their bodies together, to make it harder, faster, enough, and yet Rodney didn’t even suggest changing positions. He gave up and wrapped both his hands around the back of Ronon’s neck, mesmerized by the dark intensity of Ronon’s eyes fixed firmly somewhere around his mouth, and he closed his eyes and croaked out, "You’re not ever allowed to stop. Nobody else would ever make me happy after I’ve had this."

Ronon pressed down with one hand on Rodney’s ass and panted harshly as he thrust up into him, once, twice, driving his breath out of him before he could catch it again and say, "Won’t stop, don’t want to...."

A tremor ran through Rodney’s thighs – not shivery lust, but his body declaring that it wasn’t going to stand for this much longer. "I can’t," he gasped. "I can’t keep...let me lie down."

Ronon smoothed his hand around Rodney’s hip and over his thigh soothingly. "You can. Just like this. You can, I’ve got you."

The blankets were coming apart underneath them, sliding away in every direction under Rodney’s feet, and Ronon was having to work harder and harder, hissing with each breath as he flexed his thighs and abs to keep up his rhythm. It was insane, there was no reason for this, but the illogic of the whole thing didn’t matter in the slightest to his body, which was alive with pleasure everywhere that it didn’t ache and burn, and several places that it did. He steeled himself to follow Ronon’s rhythm, pushing himself up as best he could when Ronon went lax and letting his weight bear him back down when Ronon thrust up into him.

Things got a lot easier when Ronon put his hand around Rodney’s cock – or, well, maybe not easier, but at least it didn’t go on too much longer than that. Rodney cried out when he came, solid, focused pleasure mixed with boneless relief. Ronon came on the very next thrust, then heaved them both over so they could melt tangled together in the splatter of blankets, panting and trading blunt, soft bites along their jaws and necks. Rodney shivered all over when Ronon’s hand swept over the small of his back – not because he was cold, but he was still grateful enough for the blanket Ronon pulled over them both, wrapping them close together with Rodney’s hand in between their chests. He didn’t even care that it was bound to fall asleep and start prickling painfully at any moment. "That was different," Rodney murmured into his beard. "I’m skipping the gym for a week."

"Sorry," Ronon said sleepily. "Just thought it would be good to do at least one thing we’ve never done before. You know, just...for the occasion."

"Oh," Rodney said, and he wouldn’t have expected that to make him feel a bit sticky and melted inside, the idea that Ronon wanted this to be...an occasion. _It’s not real_, he told himself for the trillionth-and-first time, but it felt less reassuring than before. It left him feeling a little empty and sad, feelings that he managed to insulate himself from by wrapping his legs around one of Ronon’s and burying his face against Ronon’s chest so that his weight immobilized one arm. Ronon worked his other arm free from the blanket and brought his hand across to pet Rodney’s shoulder lightly, his thumb brushing Rodney’s chin. "It wasn’t different-bad."

"Tired?"

"A bit. Are you?"

Ronon hesitated a moment and then said, "Not very. I can stay up, if you want to sleep. Then I can wake you up in a while to check on your thing."

Rodney rolled his neck, tipping his face up so that he could see the sky, now rich with stars in the full darkness. "You don’t always have to take care of me," he said.

Ronon snorted. "You say that like I do. I never take care of you. You never...seem to want me to."

"You’re not responsible for me," Rodney said, and then as soon as the words were out, there was that feeling again, closer to the surface this time: hollow, the kind of hunger that came from real starvation, past where the need to eat was a pang and into just a long, gnawing nothingness. "First you take care of me," he heard himself saying unsteadily, "then you feel _responsible_, then you don’t feel like you’re allowed to stop, and then you’re trapped and resentful and I’ve gotten – gotten used to having you there, and I don’t know how to take care of myself anymore when you get fed up and– "

"I don’t know whereyou come up with this stuff."

"We can talk about my childhood some other day," Rodney said. "How’s never?"

Ronon rubbed over the back of Rodney’s wrist and said, "Okay, I’m not responsible for you. Okay?"

"Okay," Rodney said, on a yawn. "Good to have that straight."

The next thing he knew, something was bothering him out of a perfectly sound sleep, like an insect on his face. He swatted at it twice with no effect, and then again in an impatient flurry of slaps, and only when it grabbed back did he realize it was Ronon’s hand. He opened his eyes and after a moment’s adjustment to the dim light, he focused in on Ronon’s grin. "Oh, stop," he said raspily. "...wake me up just to torment me?"

"That was just lucky," Ronon said, keeping Rodney’s hand folded carefully in his fingers. "It’s close to morning."

"It’s still dark out."

"Yeah. If it were light out, it would be _morning_."

"That’s very clever. You’re very clever."

He smiled more broadly and lowered himself over Rodney’s body, close enough to whisper into his ear, "Bet you can guess what I woke you up for."

Rodney muttered something that was, fortunately, incomprehensible, because if it hadn’t been incomprehensible, he was fairly sure it would have been needy and embarrassing. He wound his arms around Ronon’s neck and nuzzled at his face, smooth skin and rough beard, while the real focus of his attention was the feel of Ronon’s cock getting harder and thicker against his thigh. He didn’t know what he’d been thinking, before: it was _entirely_ meaningful, being able to get a man hard. At least, maybe when it was this man.....

They were both still so slick with the oil, which apparently had the additional happy property of not turning tacky and stiff as it dried, that it was almost a surprise to both of them when their lazy morning grinding turned into the head of Ronon’s cock nudging inside him, a sudden shock of warm pressure as Rodney arched up and spread his legs. "Fuck," Ronon growled, getting a grip under Rodney’s thigh and rubbing his face roughly against Rodney’s neck. "Fuck, McKay...."

"Rodney," he said. "My name is – Rodney, by the way."

"Rodney," he repeated softly, with a little bit of a catch and stutter low in his throat. He mouthed Rodney’s neck and mumbled into it, "_Mash pa souneth deneze_ – Rodney."

"Oh," Rodney said, the sound startled out of him before he could stop it. He’d never heard Ronon speak Satedan, except for the occasional grumble under his breath on missions that he’d always taken for cursing. It sounded a little like Czech, only _much_ sexier than any of the Czech Rodney had ever heard; in fairness, the context probably played a role. "What does that– ?"

Ronon kissed him instead of answering and started to realign their bodies at a blissfully familiar angle.

"Wait – wait," Rodney said, pushing blindly against Ronon’s shoulders. "No, we, it’s almost morning." The sky above them was already turning steel-blue at one edge of the skylight, the leading edge of sunrise. "What if – quit that! What if they come to get us?"

"Then I guess we’ll show ‘em how it’s done," Ronon said with predatory good cheer, lifting Rodney’s ass and moving him just–

"_No_," Rodney said, batting helplessly at Ronon. "No, I have to unplug the – God, this is unfair! Now who’s the stubborn one?"

"Still you, I’m pretty sure," Ronon said, but he lowered Rodney’s leg to the blankets and rolled off of him. "Go on," he said when Rodney couldn’t respond except by blinking and practicing his breathing. Rodney stumbled up and made his way toward the mainframe through his normal early-morning strategy of navigating in the direction of blinking lights.

Rodney did his best to bury the equipment as far under protective layers of blankets as he could, but he still couldn’t justify rolling around on top of fragile computer parts. He sat down on the edge of the nest and pulled a blanket over his lap. Ronon sat beside him, one hand braced behind him so that Rodney could lean slightly back against his arm. "You still want to?" Ronon asked, angling toward him so that his breath blew in Rodney’s ear and his hand worked underneath the blanket to find his dick.

"Mmm. Okay," Rodney conceded sleepily, leaning against Ronon’s shoulder. Sitting up, he was more aware of the presence of the heavy doors and the likelihood that they would open soon, and with his luck, at a very inconvenient moment. But what was he going to say – no?

Ronon stroked him, slow and tight, and Rodney ran his nails up Ronon’s forearm. "Mind if I ask you something?" Rodney said.

With a soft whuff of laughter by his ear, Ronon said, "What?"

"That whole...Avenger thing– " Ronon stiffened as if he were about to pull away, and Rodney tightened his fingers around his arm. "No, look. You don’t like it, obviously, I get that, but you have to understand, the curiosity is killing me. You don’t want me to _die_, do you?"

That made him relax around the eyes a little, almost a smile. "I don’t want you to die."

"So when they say...execute, that means...?"

Ronon shrugged stiffly. "What you think it means. He used to be my taskmaster – that’s like a – like a CO, but more. We go into the service young, and your taskmaster is responsible for you, a little bit like a...second father. Anyway, he was my taskmaster, and he was also a collaborator. Everyone knew it. I thought he’d escaped, but then when Teyla and I found him– "

"Teyla and you? This was – recently?"

"Not that recently. It’s been a couple of years."

"But it was while you were living here – or, well, not _here_, but on Atlantis? Why don’t I remember any of this?"

"You weren’t there. You were...busy. Working. We didn’t know each other yet, really."

The timeframe – two years ago, shortly after Ronon’s arrival – in combination with the vivid discomfort on Ronon’s face really only added up to one thing. "That’s where you were while I was working on Arcturus," he said. Ronon didn’t say anything. "Jesus, what a banner week that was for the McKay-Dex household."

"What does that mean?" Ronon asked, frowning suddenly at him. "Why’d you call us that?"

So Rodney stumbled through an embarrassing explanation of naming practices with a side order of feminism and ended the whole mess by gesturing toward the outer door and saying, "It was just a joke about – you know, that, all that."

Ronon nodded, looking thoughtful for a moment. Then he cracked a very slight smile as he began to work on Rodney’s cock again and said, "So it was supposed to be funny."

"I have a very _dry_ sense of humor," Rodney said loftily. "Very _sophisticated_. Don’t feel badly; it goes over a lot of people’s heads."

Ronon wrapped his free arm around Rodney’s shoulders and pulled him closer; Rodney was startled to find himself suddenly chest to chest with Ronon. His head dropped forward naturally into a perfectly comfortable spot against Ronon’s shoulder, and he shifted his leg across Ronon and around him, anchoring them together. Ronon dragged his thumb back and forth, quick and shatteringly strong, across the underside of his cock, and Rodney choked on his whimpers so loudly that he wasn’t sure if he really did hear Ronon mumble words against his temple.

He was sure he heard it after, though, when he was half kneeling and half lying on the floor, with only the trailing edge of one disordered blanket between him and the cold tiles, carding with the fingertips of both his hands through Ronon’s pubic hair while he sucked Ronon’s cock, framed between Ronon’s faintly trembling thighs. He was absolutely positive that Ronon was speaking, rather than just moaning or making one of the other disgustingly sexy noises that Rodney had become just a tad bit addicted to in the past three months, and he was fairly positive that Ronon was apologizing softly, who the hell knew for what.

They were both mostly on the floor by the end of it, Ronon wrapped loose and comfortable around Rodney and feeding him long gulps of lukewarm juice and squares of sweet, buttery cake while Rodney lazed sleepy and blissed out against his sweat-warm chest. "Sorry for what?" Rodney said with his mouth half full.

"Nothing."

"No, you said– "

"_Nothing_."

"We were talking about that man you killed, was it about– ?"

Ronon ducked down and kissed his neck roughly. "You never give up."

"I really don’t. It’s irritating, isn’t it? I can see how it would be, but it’s really completely outside my control. Did I mention the dying of curiosity part?"

"When I shot Kell...." Ronon fell silent again after that overture, and Rodney twisted around so that he could look up at Ronon’s serious expression, which was fixed on the door. "I wasn’t sorry then. I didn’t even care for a long time, because he was a Wraith collaborator, and I knew – everybody knew they deserve to die. I never even wondered...how that happened. Why he did it. Didn’t matter to me. But they say – you know, I always heard, growing up, that everybody has certain fates laid on them, dark things that meet you over and over no matter what you do, and that if you don’t face them the first time, you face them worse the next time. So I.... This person, this – he was like my father, I loved him so much. And I didn’t even try to find out what happened to him, if he had his reasons, or...."

"Everybody has their reasons," Rodney said softly. "Would it really have changed anything? People still – died because of him. Everything that happened to you...."

"No, I know. He deserved to die. I think he did. But if anyone should have cared enough to find out why, you’d think it would be me. Like I said, though, I didn’t think about anything like that at the time. I didn’t think about it for a long time, until...." He tightened his arms almost painfully around Rodney, but the sudden crush was fortunately brief. "I met it over again, you know? Maybe I didn’t do it right the first time. It came right back to me, and when they asked me what to do, I said, make the deal. If you fuck it up once, it’s worse the next time. That’s what I always heard."

It took Rodney a second to sort through that, and he was frankly appalled when it fell into place. "You are – we are _not_ Wraith collaborators. That’s not – we didn’t – that is not how it happened at all!"

Ronon shrugged. "We had good reasons. We thought we did. So I guess that’s what made me start thinking...maybe Kell thought he did, too. Maybe I was supposed to learn something from what happened to him, but I didn’t. Obviously I didn’t. Or I did, but way too late to...." He stopped and stroked Rodney’s hair brusquely and pressed a kiss to his forehead. "I’m sorry for that," he murmured. "You got taken by the Wraith. That was the last – it’s the last thing I would want, it’s – I wish I hadn’t brought that down on us, or that I’d been smart enough to see, to stop what we were doing– "

"Wait, wait, wait. Are you telling me you’ve been sitting around blaming yourself for– ? You, you _idiot_. Oh, my God! You stop it – you stop it right now!"

"I should have told you to do the right thing. I had every reason to know. You aren’t from here, it was an easy mistake for you to make, but I knew."

"Have you actually met Elizabeth? Or Sheppard, come to think of it, or as a matter of fact, _me_? Do you seriously think we would have listened to anything you said? Did we listen to Teyla? Do we ever listen to _anybody_? No, of course we don’t!"

"You got taken."

"I survived." He kissed Ronon’s neck, then the bristly underside of his jaw. "If it was anyone’s fault it was mine, all right? Everyone kept saying _we don’t have a choice, we don’t have a choice_, but we did have a choice and I knew it. We could have stalled them long enough to stage an emergency evacuation, gated off of Atlantis, and destroyed the Stargate behind us. I didn’t suggest that, because they would have bombed the crap out of Atlantis just to spite us, and I couldn’t.... I love that spindly deathtrap, and I wasn’t done with it yet, and I thought the scientific cost was too great. When push came to shove, I didn’t want to be one of the screw-ups who lost the City of the Ancients forever – looks just terrible on your Nobel application. So if anyone chose to deal with the Wraith even though he...maybe should have thought it through a little bit more rationally, it was me. If you have to blame somebody, it should probably be me."

"I don’t blame you," Ronon said. "I knew you weren’t that rational."

"Well, thank you, I love you, too," Rodney said sarcastically, and then belatedly realized that, _crap_, that was the story he was going to be stuck with for the rest of his life about the first time he said it.

Ronon kissed him at the very same moment that there was a banging sound at the metal doors and they began to drag open, and they broke away from each other, but not as fast as they might have normally, and Rodney had the presence of mind to throw enough blankets around himself for decency, but he couldn’t make himself look away from Ronon’s eyes – sorry and stubborn and gentle and amused and protective, and God, Rodney did, he did love him, and this whole mess was one hell of a way for it to come out.

When he finally managed to shake off his daze, Rodney turned around into the bright sunlight, squinting up at the distinctively bad-postured silhouette of Colonel Sheppard, holding a thick stack of familiar clothing under one arm and saying, "Anybody in here need some pants?"

*

The rest of the Vacunese mission was excruciatingly awkward, but relatively short. They got dressed and emerged from the temple to muted but apparently heartfelt cheering; glancing around, Rodney got the distinct impression that Vacunese wedding receptions, despite the fact that the guests of honor weren’t invited at all, were pretty spectacular events. Even Sheppard looked a little ragged around the edges, and Halling basically had _Really, really hung over, Don’t touch_ printed across his forehead.

Rodney and Ronon fell on the leftover food and made breakfast out of whatever came to hand. "Didn’t they feed you in there?" Sheppard asked, and Ronon looked up from where he was crouched over a pot of something like congealed cheese fondue and said, "Yeah, but we didn’t really have time to eat," in such a beautifully calm and neutral way that it seemed to rattle Sheppard worse than an outright leer would have. Ronon was really kind of a master at fucking with people’s minds; it was one of the many things Rodney admired about him.

Ronon had blue and black ink smeared all over his arms and his neck and in dusky streaks across his face, but the worst of it was stained over his palms and the inside of his lips. From what he could see, Rodney was in a similar state, and he tried to wear it with as much dignity as possible. He could hear just enough of the delighted whispering around him to realize that an extra layer of virility and sexual prowess was being added to Ronon’s legend on the spot, and Ronon looked rather more sanguine about that part of his reputation than he’d seemed about the righter-of-wrongs and smiter-of-malefactors part. Sheppard kept staring at Rodney’s mouth with alternating befuddlement and anguish, which Rodney supposed he could forgive him for. He didn’t think he would have responded very well to physical evidence of Sheppard’s oral sex habits, either. There were some things you just weren’t supposed to know about your friends in any particular detail.

They left with half a Jumper full of cheese wheels and furs and beer and a box of some kind of short-range pistol made of a light alloy that apparently wouldn’t show up on most types of weapons scans, and after much sober well-wishing and long-winded oaths of peace and blessings on Rodney and Ronon’s joyful days to come and inevitable but distant honorable deaths, they slammed the door closed and Sheppard lifted off so abruptly that Rodney got pitched sideways into his seat and Halling looked for all the world like he was about to barf all over the console. "We’ve got what we came for, right?" Rodney asked hesitantly.

"Yeah, one of those beer kegs isn’t beer," Sheppard said. "So...good work, everybody."

"It’ll take time to decode all that data," Rodney warned. "And then, we don’t even know if it’s actually of any use whatsoever, so...."

"Well, do your thing," Sheppard said vaguely. "Keep us posted."

Nobody said anything on the fifteen minute flight back to the gate. Nobody even looked at anyone else – as far as Rodney could tell; he wasn’t looking, either, so he might conceivably have missed something.

But even so, it wasn’t until they were actually back inside Atlantis that Rodney started to feel genuinely...weird. It was the utter familiarity of everything around him – the gateroom, the hangar, the soldiers that he mostly knew by name now, the big clear windows and the swooping Art Deco architecture. It was home; it was, oddly enough, _normal_. It was exactly how he left it, neat and ticking smoothly along, mostly perfectly organized, mostly perfectly comprehensible. Light years away from worlds with temples and high priests and unreadable glyphs and unmanageable promises – worlds where it made sense to mark himself forever as – what the hell had Teyla called it? – the _intimate companion_ of a man he had basically nothing in common with, except for iron stomachs and an impatience with fools and sexual chemistry and a brief but noteworthy history of shared brushes with death.

Atlantis was not Vacuna, and this was not a fairy tale.

"Local time is 0245," Sheppard announced as the doors of the Jumper opened outward. "You guys probably want to...snag showers and get some sleep before the debriefing. I’ll try to schedule it for pretty late in the morning." He slid out easily, his boots clanging on the floor of the hangar, then looked back and noticed that neither Rodney nor Ronon had moved out of their seats at all. He stood there for a second, observing the situation, and then said in his sensitive-but-manly voice, "This was a good mission; I like the ones where no one gets hurt. Everybody should feel good about this one."

"We’re terribly proud of ourselves," Rodney said, more snottily than he really intended. Maybe he was just tired. "Gold stars all around."

Sheppard and Halling left the hangar; Ronon helped the soldiers on duty unload their swag, and when one of them indicated the paint all over him with a terse, curious word or two, Rodney could hear Ronon’s distinctive rumble outside the Jumper, saying, "Ritual stuff. I don’t know, I kind of messed it up, I guess."

When they were gone, Ronon stood outside the Jumper, in Atlantis, leaning on one arm in the door. "You just gonna sit there?"

"Maybe," Rodney said sulkily. In spite of Sheppard’s attempts at morale boosting, Rodney keenly felt that he had not received his full share of gold stars. He didn’t think anyone quite realized how...strange all of this was for him, how he couldn’t quite leave it all on Vacuna, and he couldn’t bring it home. _The ones where no one gets hurt._

"It’s weird," Ronon said quietly, leaning his head in the doorway now, his eyes careful and kind on Rodney. "To me it is, at least. It wasn’t anything like I think of when I think of a wedding, but it still felt – like something. Not like...any one thing, anything in particular, but not like nothing, either."

"We’re not married," Rodney said shortly. "It’s not...real."

"I know. But do you think.... Are you sure we’re not?"

Rodney shifted in his seat to look directly at Ronon. There were dark circles under his eyes, not quite as dark as the smears of paint over his cheekbones and the edges of his face. Ronon smiled slightly at him; Rodney wasn’t totally sure why. He smiled back, because it was hard not to, and said, "We’re a little bit ambiguously married." After a moment’s pause, he felt it was incredibly important to say, "I don’t actually even believe in marriage."

"What, that it exists?" Ronon said, raising his eyebrows.

"No, that it– What’s the point of legally binding someone to be with you if they don’t want to be with you? How fulfilling can extorting the services of your ostensible loved one possibly be?"

Ronon’s eyebrows went up the next degree. "How’d we get to extortion?"

"You know," Rodney said, making a singularly inexpressive gesture in the air. "When you get to that point where it’s – over, where for all intents and purposes it’s over, but you end up staying because you’re married, and there’s a mortgage and a dog and it’s too much trouble to figure out whose DVDs are whose and how to split up the dinette set. Why do people even want that, why do they want to go to sleep every night next to someone who’d just as soon be somewhere else, if they hadn’t made it too much bother to go? Why can’t people just stay together of their own free will? And then you’d know for sure that they want to stay, until they go, and then you’d know that, too. It just seems more honest that way. Doesn’t it seem more honest?"

Ronon didn’t answer right away. In fact, he didn’t answer at all, but after a minute he said, "Is it going to be like this for long? I’m just wondering."

"Like what?"

"Like.... Okay, it’s been six months– "

"Three."

"– and you don’t trust me. That’s fine. Whatever. But I’m guessing when it’s been a year you won’t trust me, so okay. When does that stop being how things are? Two years, ten years? You gonna die of old age still thinking any minute I’m going to get sick of feeding you mashed carrots and walk out on you?"

He didn’t know what to say to that. Two years, ten years, old age? How in the hell was he supposed to know how things would be then, when he’d never even thought about.... He’d never had any idea Ronon was thinking about it, certainly. "You’re making plans to feed me mashed carrots?" he said in a small voice.

Ronon shrugged. "I like feeding you," he said indulgently. "You said don’t stop; I said I don’t want to stop. What else do you want me to say?"

"But how can you– ? You can’t really know. You can’t know how you’ll feel in the future, nobody knows the future. It’s inherently impossible to promise anyone you’ll – feel any one way about them forever, so all you can do is promise to owe them forever, and that’s not what– That’s what I don’t understand. I don’t understand that part. Why you’d want to hold that over somebody, why you’d want them under terms like that."

"I guess it doesn’t really make sense," Ronon said casually, as if that part didn’t matter very much, as if that weren’t _the entire point_. He held out a hand toward Rodney and said, "You want to shower at my place? I think we both need somebody to scrub our backs."

It was easy to put his hand in Ronon’s. He had a feeling that two days ago, it would have been impossible. Rodney looked down at their hands and thought that Ronon was right, that there was no way to make sense out of something like this, absolutely none. It felt good, though, warm against his scabbed-over palm, not quite pain. "Everybody _thinks_ they’ll keep their wedding vows," he heard himself say. "No matter how quickly they start screwing it up, at the actual time they say whatever they say, everyone believes it."

"Everyone except you, right?" Ronon said, but he said it fondly.

Rodney almost couldn’t hear himself at all now, over the dull roar of blood in his ears, the low-grade rebellion of his nervous system, but he was fairly sure that he said, "No, including me. At the time I said it...it felt like something I could do."

"You could do it. If you wanted to, you could."

"You don’t know– "

"It’s a gamble – so what? Most of life is a gamble. I’ve learned it’s smarter to bet on you than against you."

Rodney let Ronon’s hand pull him forward from his seat. Kneeling on the floor of the Jumper, he wasn’t much shorter than Ronon standing on the hangar floor outside. No shorter than usual, at least. He wrapped his free hand around Ronon’s wrist and said, "You think we should do it, don’t you?"

Ronon’s mouth quirked, and he reached around to stroke the back of Rodney’s neck with his thumb. "You asking if I want to stay married to you?"

"I’m asking your opinion on the subject, yes. I’m asking what you think."

"I think...." Ronon seemed to take it very seriously for a moment, and then he relaxed into that sweet, mind-fuck grin of his that always made Rodney dizzy and irrational and just almost too damned happy even to recognize himself and said, "I think we could show ‘em how it’s done."

*

"So then there’s just, uh, there’s one more – brief – one last thing," Rodney said, which John experienced as a kind of low-grade betrayal. Usually if there was one person as eager to get out of debriefings as he was, he could count on it being Rodney. Particularly this time, John wouldn’t really have figured he’d want to hang around.

Not that Rodney had any reason to feel...weird or nervous, but he’d looked weird and nervous all morning, the typical Rodney McKay bundle of exposed agitation and tamped-down intensity, only more so, with a side of what appeared to be rampant paranoia. John had passed him three times in the halls, and Rodney had almost jumped out of his skin every time, looking around like three more of John could converge on him at any second, then mumbling something weird and dashing off. What was with that?

Elizabeth must have known what the deal was, though, because she pulled two sheets of paper and pushed them across the table with her little serious-and-responsible-but-still-approachable-really! smile, and John reached out automatically before he realized she wasn’t passing them to him. "You got these in order awfully quickly," Rodney said as he glanced them over. "Very efficient of you."

"It wasn’t difficult," Elizabeth said. "Does anybody have a pen?"

"I do," Rodney said, and John vaguely wondered when he’d been authorized to be around clicky-pens again; last John had heard, Rodney’s staff had banded together to deny him all access for being the kind of asshole who sat around clicking them frenetically while he thought. John thought they’d have done better to cut off his caffeine, but then, he didn’t have to work with Rodney twenty hours a day, so it was easy for him to have strategies, he knew. "Are you supposed to, ah...say anything?" he asked as he signed both pages with what looked like great care.

"Would you like me to?" Elizabeth asked.

Rodney shrugged and passed the pen to Ronon, who said, "We pretty much did that part already," and signed under Rodney’s name with his left hand.

"You’re not left-handed," Rodney said blankly.

Ronon shrugged with one shoulder and said, "Sign legal stuff with your left hand. Shows you’re not going for a concealed weapon."

"How does that make sense? That just means if you tried to kill me right now, you’d be doing it with your dominant hand."

Ronon smirked slightly and said, "I’m not trying to kill you. Right now."

"I just think it’s a ridiculous custom. What if– "

"Rodney!" Carson finally said loudly. _Thank _you. "What in the world are you doing?"

"Oh, this, well, this is our – it’s a marriage license," Rodney said, suddenly keenly interested in the way Ronon was cautiously finishing up the second signature with his off-hand. "We were – we got married on P9X-779, and this is just...the legal part."

And there went a masterwork in oblique mission-report writing that John had spent forty-five minutes on this morning.

"_You did what_ on P9X-779?"

"Is that so?" Teyla said calmly, giving John a chilly look.

"I was going to tell you," John mumbled, even though that was a bald-faced lie, because it wasn’t his place to tell anyone if Rodney didn’t want him to, and until just now he would have bet his _guitar_ that Rodney didn’t want anyone to know.

"Um, should I be hearing about this?" Lorne said hesitantly.

That seemed to put some spine back in Rodney, and he sounded like himself again as he snapped, "It’s a legal document; it’s a matter of public record. I’m a Canadian citizen, and I can marry whomever I want and I can _tell_ whomever I want that I’ve done it."

"Sorry," Lorne said immediately, and with apparent sincerity. He gave Rodney a little smile and said, "I forget."

"What about Ronon?" Teyla asked. "He holds no citizenship that would be recognized by any of your governments. Is he empowered to enter into such a contract?"

"Absolutely," Elizabeth said. "It’s an issue that’s come up before at SGC – not this precise issue, as far as I know, but the need for a legal identity. You and Ronon both hold – ah – the equivalent of resident alien status." She looked appropriately regretful about that turn of phrase. "The documents are highly classified, of course, but completely legitimate."

A little hesitantly, Rodney nudged the papers in Carson’s direction. Carson still looked too poleaxed to notice. "We still need two witness signatures. If...it isn’t...problematic for you?"

"Hm? Problem– Oh! Oh, no, not at all." Carson pulled both copies of the license toward him and signed them both in a finely honed split-second medical scrawl, adding with obvious pride, "It’s legal in Scotland, too, you know."

"I didn’t know that," Rodney said.

He still looked slightly concerned, until Carson gave him the papers back and met his eyes squarely. "Congratulations, Rodney," he said. "It’s, ah...rather remarkable news. I admit I didn’t even know you were...."

"Seeing someone?" Rodney supplied dryly. "No, well, apparently I’ve been amazingly discreet. Who knew I had it in me? It doesn’t seem like anybody knew."

"I knew," Teyla said. Everybody looked at her, and she put on an innocent expression that John knew was totally fake. "It seemed rather obvious."

"And can you...?" Rodney offered her the pen, which she took with a slow, respectful nod. "We thought...since you couldn’t be there," he said, sounding desperately awkward, but not insincere. "For the wedding, that is."

For the _wedding_. Funny, but John wasn’t sure he’d ever thought of it quite like that. He didn’t know what it would be, if not a wedding, but...still.

"Actually," Rodney went on, "I’m profoundly happy that you weren’t. It was unbelievably embarrassing; I much prefer the small, civil ceremony angle we have here, and you’ll just have to take my word for it, but I’m sure you do, too."

Teyla finished signing the license and leaned over in her chair to grip Rodney’s arm warmly. He looked down at her hand, startled, and then up into her too-near eyes. "My people call this the doubling of the soul," she said. "May the length of your lives and your joy be doubled, as well."

"Thank you," Rodney said, blinking in something like surprise. "That’s...thoughtful of you."

Elizabeth was the last person to sign. "I know you don’t want to hear me go on and on," she said, "but I just have to say one thing. I normally file death certificates. I can’t tell you...what a wonderful change of pace this is for me. So not only are congratulations in order, but thank you."

"Yeah, this has been great," John said abruptly. "Best staff meeting ever. Is that it?"

Elizabeth gave him a puzzled look and said, "I guess it is."

"Right," Rodney said, standing up. "Back to work. These files aren’t going to decode themselves." He hesitated for a second, then put his hand on Ronon’s shoulder, more like he was tapping him in a game of Duck, Duck, Goose than like an affectionate pat. Ronon did that thing where he looked totally serious and totally entertained at the same time.

John got a slow start and had to chase Rodney halfway down the hall toward his lab, with Rodney resolutely ignoring him until he caught up. "Hey," John said, grabbing his sleeve. "What the fuck? What are you doing?"

"I can’t imagine what could possibly be unclear about it."

"You...." It had seemed so important to catch up to Rodney, but suddenly John had basically nothing at all to say. "You know you don’t have to do this, right?" he finally said.

Rodney rolled his eyes. "Yes, thank you for worrying about me, but I do know that. Strictly on a volunteer basis, I promise you."

"You got _married_." John wasn’t sure he could stress that enough. "You got married. I...don’t think I ever exactly...saw you as the marrying type."

Strangely, that seemed to relax Rodney. "Yes, I know what you mean," he said thoughtfully. "I always imagined that I would spend my life making great discoveries and benefitting mankind. But you know something? This isn’t even the most terrifying thing I’ve done recently. Granted, that says more about my life overall than it does about my relationship, but still.... Not doing it because it wasn’t something I’d planned on seems a little bit absurd, don’t you think? When was the last time any of us _planned_ anything around here?"

John wasn’t sure how great a reason that was to get married, but it was a little late for that now.

*

By dinner, everyone knew, of course.

Ronon normally ate an early supper alone, but it seemed to John that people were cutting an even wider berth around him than usual in the mess hall; he tried not to notice who was shooting him looks that were just generically stunned, and whose were openly disapproving, because – because John knew he could drive himself nuts trying to guess where the first problems were going to come from. Better just to let everything play itself out naturally and not borrow trouble in advance.

He sat down next to Ronon, Elizabeth across from him. "I found a much nicer suite of rooms that’s not too out of the way," Elizabeth said. "It’s two floors below everything else that’s occupied right now, but it’s by a transporter and it’s...really much more suitable. For a couple, I mean."

Ronon glanced up from his food, and after a second he nodded. "That’d be good."

Apparently emboldened now that her first suggestion had elicited the Ronon-equivalent of great delight, she said, "And we should have a reception."

"Do you think that’s smart?" John asked, by which he meant, _Are you fucking serious?_

"Reception, what’s that mean?"

"It’s a party," Elizabeth said. "We don’t have that many things to celebrate here; it would be good for everybody."

"Not everybody – listen, not everybody is going to want to celebrate," John said.

Elizabeth gave him a wounded look; Christ, he really hated being the designated curmudgeon around here, but somebody had to hang onto his healthy cynicism. "Well, we won’t force anyone to come, then," she said in a loftily wounded tone that clearly implied that people who _killed puppies and kittens_ and hated the elderly would be permitted to stay home.

"McKay doesn’t like parties that much," Ronon said.

"It would really be more for the rest of us," Elizabeth said. "Other people on Atlantis may decide to get married someday, so why not start establishing traditions– "

A minor commotion of clacking glasses and whistling drew everyone’s attention to a group of female Marines at the next table over. Lt. Cadman stood on a chair facing in their direction and held up her glass of water. "I would like to propose a toast," she said loudly. "From the first person to become as one flesh with Rodney McKay, to the second – I hope it takes you longer than two days to start contemplating suicide."

Enough laughter and applause followed that to make Elizabeth turn back with a highly vindicated look on her face and say, "See? People love weddings."

"Girls love weddings," John said. "Guys hate finding out that the person who’s been beating them up for two years is a queer." He _really hated_ being put into this position, but dammit, someone had to bring it up.

"They could fix that by being less easy to beat up," Ronon said, unperturbed. "We’ll go to the party if there is one," he told Elizabeth. "I’ll make sure he goes."

Elizabeth gave John a look of smug victory. "Can’t wait," John said.

After Ronon left, John said, "If I’d had the option when I was assembling teams, I wouldn’t have asked a married couple to serve in the field together."

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows at him. "You want to reassign one of them?"

John picked at his enchilada. "What do you think?"

"I think you’re the military commander. It’s up to you."

Yeah, that was the part he wasn’t crazy about. "I’m still thinking about it," he said. "I like things how they are."

How they were.

*

He pinged Teyla the next night to see if she wanted to go surfing with him in the morning (her last lesson had ended in mild disaster, but she’d kept her sopping wet dignity and hadn’t flatly refused to try it again, ever).

She paused for a moment before answering and said, "I am likely to be very tired in the morning. I have been helping Rodney and Ronon move."

"This late?" John checked his watch – after midnight.

There was another long pause, and she finally said, "You are invited to join us, if you like, John."

John wasn’t real big on helping people move, but then, neither of them owned all that much stuff, and he was kind of curious to see the new place. When he got there, he realized that the moving part was done, and he’d actually just been invited to the afterparty.

Teyla was there, and Carson and Cadman, Katie Brown and her boyfriend Lt. Drake, who piloted for SGA-4, and Charlie Springer, who’d become kind of a protégé of Ronon’s after proving that he had that stringy, tenacious toughness that short guys sometimes had. There were a few boxes of things shoved against the far wall and in the doorway to the bedroom, and a surprising amount of furniture that John assumed had been scavenged from other out-of-use living quarters – a long couch and a loveseat, two unmatched armchairs and a dining room set. They had a fucking _dining room set_.

They also had margaritas in the adjacent kitchenette, which instantly became the place John wanted to be. Cadman wouldn’t let him touch the blender, but there was still something comforting about being within arm’s reach of the booze.

Ronon and Springer were in the bedroom, apparently trying to assemble something under Rodney’s direction that he swore was an Ancient bedframe and headboard. Nobody but Rodney seemed totally positive that was what it actually was.

"Are you sure you even want to sleep on something that might accidentally...activate?" Katie asked as all three of them emerged from the bedroom, less than victorious. "Do you even know what it does?"

"It doesn’t do _anything_," Rodney said, and then hesitated. "Probably. Hm."

"Yeah, what use could the Ancients possibly have had for an intelligent king-sized bed?" Cadman said, sampling the latest batch of margaritas before pouring Teyla a new glass.

"Maybe it’s like those beds that adjust the sleep number on both sides separately," Katie suggested. "My parents swear by theirs."

"Maybe it throws you out in the morning, like _Wallace and Grommit_," Drake said.

"Maybe it’s bondage related," Cadman said.

"It doesn’t do anything!" Rodney said, dropping like a stone to the loveseat and taking up all of it. "It’s just decorative! God, I hurt all over; somebody bring me a drink."

"Threw your back out from all that telling us what to do?" Ronon asked blandly, delivering the drink.

"That is completely unfair – I’ve done lots of work tonight – physical labor! And it’s harder for me, because unlike some people, I normally have to earn a living through my wits. You enjoy that sort of thing." Ronon just stared at him, apparently at a complete loss in the face of Rodney, and just this side of totally fed up. "Well – you enjoy the – you’re good at it," Rodney said, backtracking like crazy. "Vastly more of an asset than me to this project, and a boundlessly generous human being in addition, which is why you’re going to help me with my back?"

"_I’m the one who’s been doing all the work_," Ronon said, exasperated.

"Yes, but you’re not the one in pain, are you?" Ronon frowned but didn’t seem able to argue with that, so Rodney pressed the issue. "You don’t need my help, though if you did, of course I would. I’m the one who’s going to be so stiff I can hardly move tomorrow. Carson, tell him I really do have back problems! He’s modifying the new mattress to my prescription, you know."

"Stop talking," Ronon said, but he sat on the back of the loveseat with Rodney’s back braced against his knees and started working the heels of his hands just below Rodney’s neck. Rodney dropped his head forward with a bone-deep sigh.

John didn’t realize there was a door to the kitchenette until Cadman tapped something on the walls and made it side shut, closing the two of them off from everyone in the main room. "Bothers you, doesn’t it?" she said almost pleasantly, grinding the rim of a glass onto a sheet of salt.

"What bothers me?" he said, but what the hell else would she be talking about? "No," he said. "They’re grown-ups, they can do whatever they want. It’s just – hard to get used to. Is there anybody who doesn’t think it’s...kind of weird?"

Cadman shrugged and poured him a straight shot of tequila. "You’re probably right about that. I mean, can you honestly picture them having sex?"

"I _don’t_ picture it," John said. "I haven’t exactly been trying."

She shook her head and sighed. "Fucking Pegasus, right? The crazy just gets into _everything_, sooner or later. But it does bother you," she added gently. "I don’t know why. I’m not asking. I’m just saying, people on this base are looking at you to figure out how to react. This may be personal to you– "

"Personal, what does that mean, personal?"

"– but it’s affecting everyone. Colonel, I’m not asking," she said again, with a little stress on the last word that made John afraid he was starting to understand. "I’m just trying to tell you what other people are saying."

"And what are they saying?"

Cadman shrugged and stuck her little finger in the pitcher for a taste. "That you’re upset about it. Some people think it’s the usual, you don’t like it that suddenly you have a whole team that’s into dick. Personally, I don’t think you’re the bigot type. I think it’s something about this marriage in particular – I don’t know what, and I’m not asking you to tell– "

"Would you stop saying that? It’s nothing like – like what you’re not asking me. I’m not jealous, for Christ’s sake."

"Because you seem jealous."

"I’m not! And I’m not upset, either. I don’t know why you think it bothers me, but it doesn’t. It’s none of my business, it’s not my place to tell them who to – be with, who to marry."

"Okay, okay," she said, but she looked like he hadn’t said the right thing, and she was vaguely disappointed in him. "Hey, that’s a lot more than they’d get from most commanders."

"Yeah," John said uncertainly. "A lot more."

Hours later and many margaritas richer, John slid off the arm of Teyla’s chair and was pleased to find out that his feet were still underneath him. You had to love feet – good, reliable feet that always came through for you with no surprises. "Colonel, do you need help getting to the transporter?" Drake asked.

"Lieutenant, I’ve got my feet," John said. "And when you’ve got your feet, you’ve got everything."

His feet were going just a little bit faster than the rest of him, but that was a technical detail, and anyway Ronon grabbed him by the arm before he fell.

Ronon walked him to the transporter and propped him up in the corner. He started to reach for the map controls, but stopped when John slapped him twice squarely in the chest and said, "You’re a good kid, you’re a good kid."

"You’re a lightweight," Ronon grumbled, but it didn’t matter what he said, because John knew. John knew. They had a bond.

"You don’t have to stay with him," John said. "Just because we made you – in the temple, the mission. That was just the mission. I don’t know what he told you, but you don’t really have to – stay."

Ronon glanced a little worriedly over his shoulder, but the hallway was empty. Nobody else even lived on this hallway yet, although maybe someday they would. Maybe someday soon they would – bigger suites, privacy, _really much more suitable for couples_. Maybe someday soon everybody would be getting married and moving to the ‘burbs, putting down roots, making it work. Maybe, maybe. "Hey," Ronon said, gruff but not unkind, "you need to stop talking. You’re drunk."

"If he told you you had to– "

"He didn’t. It wasn’t like that."

"You never have to," John insisted, because he was positive that Ronon wasn’t listening, that he didn’t get what John was trying to say. "You don’t have to get married, nobody can make you. You can always say no."

Ronon sighed and got into the transporter with him, the doors sliding shut behind him and all the lights coming on as it whirred gently to life. "Yeah, but I said yes," Ronon said patiently.

And that was the crazy part, the part John didn’t know what to do with. It just jangled in his head all the time, every time he looked at either one of them, and he couldn’t make things settle into place, he couldn’t make them fit.

Ronon got him home and into bed, then put two glasses of water and the wastebasket from the bathroom beside him. He had to touch the wall to make the lights go out, which John could do without his hands – most of the time. "Sleep it off," Ronon said.

"Some people don’t want to get married," John said. "We’re a team. I thought we were like that."

Ronon was quiet for a second. "I guess not all of us are," he said, and then he left John alone.

*

The goddamned Ancient bedframe continued to defeat Rodney, who had earned a B.S. at the age of nineteen with dual majors in physics and _mechanical engineering_. He would have asked for help, but there was no one in Atlantis that he trusted not to make some crack about suddenly being able to see why he’d chosen to pursue the theoretical sciences. He would rather have the mattress on the floor until he died, and Ronon, who’d spent the best part of his adulthood hoping the cave he was sleeping in had moss in it, certainly didn’t seem to care.

He wasn’t even sleeping much these days anyway, what with that goad in the back of his head, the base of his skull, day in and day out, the persistent feeling that he was _moments away_ from cracking it open, that if he could just push through, he’d have it in the palm of his hand: an end to the Wraith threat forever.

Without the Wraith, Rodney’s life would be pretty much...ideal. That almost made their continued existence harder to tolerate – they’d graduated from a galactic menace to a _personal insult_.

He could forgive himself he un-assembled bed (the headboard seemed to be wider than the footboard, which was just bizarre, and it was maybe just barely possible that Katie had been onto something when she said it was something other than a bedframe to begin with, in which case it might behoove him to apologize for the things he said about women and spatial visualization, which were perhaps a little uncalled-for, even if completely supported by a great deal of scientific research), when he hadn’t even had time to put his diplomas up on the new walls yet. He was pulling twenty- and thirty-hour shifts in the IT labs, trying to make some kind of brute-force synthesis out of the reams of information that the linguists, the mathematicians, and the computer monkeys were slinging at each other non-stop.

Some honeymoon. He hadn’t even been able to sit down for a meal in seven days, he mostly saw his husband from across a laboratory while he helped diagram a Satedan sentence on the whiteboard, and he had to multitask by having sex during his probably-not-frequent-enough showers. It was a miracle he ever _saw_ his bed.

It would be worth it, though, if the Scorpion Project panned out. It was still too early to know, but he had this feeling – if he could just push through, if he could just _get there_. Every time he closed his eyes, it was proof that he wouldn’t get there tonight. It was easier to keep going, to not shut down that possibility, so he played both sides against the middle by only indulging in naps, so that he’d never have to tell himself the day was completely over and they were still nowhere worth mentioning.

Eventually even that failed, and he couldn’t remember how long it had been since he’d gotten any sleep deserving of the name; he could barely remember the route to his own apartment, and granted, it was new, but come on.

He found his way home, though, and through the maze of half-unpacked boxes into the bedroom, where he only had the energy to strip off his shoes, socks, and shirt before crawling under the single sheet alongside Ronon. He didn’t even take his belt off – had only just thought of his belt and wondered if it would scratch up Ronon’s skin when he fell deeply, abruptly asleep.

The morning light woke him up a mere three hours later, and he rubbed his eyes with a whine of protest aimed at nothing in particular, then focused on the comfortable weight of Ronon’s hand spread across his stomach.

"Are you up?" he whispered, stroking the back of Ronon’s hand.

Ronon opened his eyes and shifted against Rodney’s side. "Yeah. What time did you get home?"

"Six-ish. I need to – I should get up."

"Fuck that," Ronon said shortly, pressing down just hard enough against Rodney’s body to indicate that he wasn’t scared to use force. "Go back to sleep."

"I have to...."

Ronon curled his fingers in Rodney’s waistband and half dragged him closer while half rolling on top of him. "Fuck that," he repeated more gently, his lips moving against Rodney’s ear. "I still don’t even believe in this thing; I’m definitely not going to let you kill yourself to get it decrypted in two weeks instead of three."

"You’re not...responsible for me," Rodney said, broken by a strenuous yawn. "You agreed, remember?"

"Things’ve changed since then."

Rodney would have argued that point, but first he didn’t care all that much, and then he discovered himself waking up all over again, this time shortly after 1400. He wasn’t wearing his belt anymore, or anything else for that matter.

Ronon kissed the side of his mouth, and Rodney said, "We missed breakfast."

"You never go to breakfast," Ronon pointed out, putting his hands on Rodney’s waist and pushing him further up the mattress so that Ronon could more conveniently nibble on his neck.

"I – I know, but – I’m starving. Oh, hey – hey," he said stupidly, lost somewhere between protest and jubilation as Ronon licked and then kissed his right nipple.

"So we’ll go to lunch," Ronon said, before sucking the nipple into his mouth and circling it with his tongue.

Rodney brushed his hands over Ronon’s twisty, rough-warm hair and undermined his own argument by grabbing Ronon’s hand and pulling it across to his left nipple while Ronon continued his slow worship of the right. "But I was thinking yesterday about how much I miss breakfast. Real breakfast food – I’m talking about biscuits and gravy, eggs fried in suicidal amounts of butter, salted and peppered within an inch of their lives and served on toast with more butter. Oh, and Cream of Wheat with maple syrup. And bacon – I don’t even care if it’s that dygen bacon they serve upstairs, because yes, fine, it’s _grey_, and that’s – oh – oh – _that’s_ nice – it’s disgusting, the grey bacon, I mean, but it tastes like the real thing, or at least more like the real thing than turkey bacon does."

Ronon lifted his head just slightly, enough to look up at Rodney’s face and say, "Gravy on biscuits, eggs on toast, syrup on porridge and grey bacon. No problem."

"We missed breakfast."

He had the most beautiful smile, he had the most _amazing_ smile, Rodney didn’t understand how he could have known this man for two years and still be shocked to the core every time he saw Ronon’s real smile and the way it made his eyes squish at the corners and sparkle. "Who do you think you’re married to?" Ronon said.

"Best provider in the Pegasus galaxy?" Rodney guessed. It must have been the right answer, because it won him a kiss.

It must have been the answer to the $64,000 question, because Ronon got out of bed (which was slightly disappointing, but on the other hand it just felt so damn good to be lying down on a firm yet springy mattress that Rodney wasn’t getting very far at feeling anything other than comfortable) and got dressed (the largest pieces of what Rodney was still almost _positive_ was a headboard were currently serving as a convenient coatrack for every item of clothing Ronon owned, since he’d never gotten past some weird, primal suspicion he had of hangers), and then came back twenty minutes later with an infirmary tray full of food.

There were no biscuits left, but there were reheated hawwah hashbrowns, just the right mushy texture and smothered with sausage gravy, and there was Cream of Wheat and a pyramid of plastic syrup cups, and the eggs, oh, _God_, the butter-soaked eggs and the toast so moist it was losing structural integrity in the center, and maybe there wasn’t quite enough salt but there was exactly the right amount of pepper and the eggs were over-easy, which he forgot to say but apparently went without saying, and they were perfect, it was all delicious and runny and greasy and starchy and exactly the way he wanted it, and after he was done he yanked Ronon down against him and kissed him sloppily, getting butter all over his mouth and his beard. 

"Let me take care of you," Ronon mumbled, kissing Rodney’s chest and tangling their hands together. "_Pa souneth deneze_. I want to."

Rodney let his hands slip out of Ronon’s and his arms stretch up over his head, so his hands dangled loosely off the edge of the mattress where there was still no headboard. Rested and fed and clear-headed, it was impossible to focus on just one thing, so he paid partial attention to Ronon’s lips tracing his ribs and tried to translate in the back of his mind from what he’d been overhearing the last few days. _Sou_ as a prefix created a possessive – _pa_ conjugated from _paia_, to be – I am my something? – _you_ are my something. "_Deneze_," he said. "What’s that mean?"

"Husband," Ronon said from where he was kissing Rodney’s stomach and rubbing his thumb along the crease of his thigh. Rodney could feel him smirk against his skin as he said, "You want to study Satedan right now?"

And, _no_, not really, but also, why not? "I bet you haven’t been teaching Dr. Caillois the best stuff."

Ronon hummed a little bit. "_Pa ousouneth_," he murmured. "You’re mine." He mouthed Rodney’s cock for just a moment, pressing his tongue flat beneath the head, and then pulled away with a soft, moist sound and said, unconscionably smug, "_Lomel, dura lixtish_. Please, I’m begging you."

"Oh! Bastard," Rodney managed breathlessly, but it was hard to be genuinely affronted and easy to let his legs spread wider for Ronon’s wandering fingers. He might on occasion beg for Ronon – all right, he might nearly always wind up begging for Ronon – but he wasn’t going to do it on _command_, in any language.

He chose not to count it as on command this time, either, since it was probably a full five minutes – at least two minutes – before Ronon was tonguing the tender skin where his cock and his balls met and he was gasping, "_Lomel, dura – dura lixtish – lomel – lomel, dura lixtish_ – oh, fuck, oh, yes." Ronon laughed, his hot breath whuffing against sensitive skin and making Rodney’s cock jump. "Oh, nice, that’s very nice," Rodney complained in a strained voice. "Laugh at me."

"No, I’m not laughing," Ronon lied, pressing a quick, sucking kiss to the inside of his thigh. "It’s just your accent. It’s pretty cute." Which was maybe a little patronizing, but on the other hand Rodney had always been fond of sexy foreign accents himself, and did he have a sexy foreign accent now? That would stand to reason. And then Ronon fondled his balls and took his cock deep into his mouth, and Rodney couldn’t speak coherently anymore in any language and didn’t care in the slightest.

The ceiling swam a little bit when he came, so Rodney put his arm over his eyes and focused on the way Ronon’s mouth moved as he swallowed and the chest-deep growls of satisfaction he made. He rolled away and rested his cheek against Rodney’s thigh for a minute, and Rodney felt the press of his chest, the heat of his breath, as he calmed down, until finally Ronon gave Rodney’s hip a light smack and said, "Okay, now you can go save the world if you want."

"Thank you," Rodney said. Because really – _thank you_. He gave himself another minute, then stretched luxuriously and sat up, giving Ronon’s hair a fond tug. "Now I see why Nobel winners always thank their wives at the awards ceremony."

"For sucking them off?"

"No. Well – yes." Ronon propped himself up on one elbow, and Rodney could just lean forward far enough to cup the back of his neck and kiss his forehead. "For that whole...taking care...thing."

Ronon blinked at him seriously for a second, then nodded. "No problem. But call me your wife while you’re accepting your Nobel and I will find a way to make you suffer for it."

"Of course," Rodney said. "I would expect nothing less. Oh – but aren’t you– ? I mean, don’t you want to get off, before I go back to the lab?"

Ronon hesitated, his eyes flickering down a little shyly, then back up to Rodney’s face. "It’s okay," he said. "I can wait. The truth is...sometimes I think it’s hot – having to wait for you. Gives me time to get a little worked up, missing you."

"That’s an incredibly functional kink to have, you know."

"I know. You being obsessed with your job can kind of be like foreplay for me. It’s efficient."

But oddly, the thought that stuck with Rodney the whole rest of the day at work wasn’t Ronon at home getting...worked up, waiting for him, although Rodney had no complaints about that. Mostly it was that image of standing on a stage in front of hundreds of people, the notecards, the microphone, the hot lights, and looking down at Ronon slouching in the front row in a tuxedo that emphasized his shoulders, as all well-tailored tuxedos should do, his mouth smirking and his eyes approving, while Rodney said, _And of course none of it would ever have been possible without the support of my husband_.

He couldn’t quite shake that little scene loose from his head. The oddest part was that it wasn’t half as terrifying as he thought it probably should be.

*

After a couple of weeks, the official word came down on the Scorpion Project, and that word was "maybe."

"We’re in, we did it," Rodney said in the staff meeting, looking exhausted but weirdly zen. "And by the way, in case anyone is considering more interdisciplinary projects and cross-departmental cooperation in the near future, please do us all a favor and forget you ever thought of it."

"You did a wonderful job, Rodney," Elizabeth said soothingly.

He rolled his eyes and said, "Wonderful? It was the stuff of legends, and that’s even ignoring the fact that coordinating human beings is so far outside any of my multiple areas of expertise that I might as well have been trying to coach a curling team."

"So was it a waste of your time or what?" John asked tersely, because Jesus, seriously, were they going to sit around listening to selections from Rodney’s forthcoming autobiography, or was someone going to tell him if they had a weapon against the Wraith?

"Maybe," Rodney said, sounding nonsensically pleased with himself. "I mean, no, no, the Scorpion toxin won’t work, it’s ridiculous. They couldn’t even figure out how to make the compound stable enough to test properly, and that’s because it’s impossible to stabilize. However, they were working off a fair-to-middling understanding of organic chemistry, and we’ve isolated a few pieces of the research process that show some surprising potential – to make a long story short, they were only semi-competent, but they were onto something. I’ve farmed it out to the chemists; they think they can salvage some of it, and maybe, given the information we have about Wraith hive ships that the Satedans had no access to, make some improvements. Actually, the encryption was the most interesting part; apparently Satedans were much more adept at espionage than they were at biological warfare. We can probably make use of that, too."

"We’re sneaky," Ronon said. John had no idea if he was joking or not. Rodney glanced over at him and beamed like a fucking girl.

"So no magic bullet," Elizabeth said, smiling. "But it sounds like it’s been worthwhile, overall?"

"Let’s call it, not a complete wild goose chase," Rodney said, but he looked relaxed and pleased, too, and since when was _Rodney_ the poster child for sunny optimism and the half-full glass?

"If nothing else, it does mean I can have my team back, right?" John said.

"Yes, of course," Elizabeth said. "And now that the guests of honor have a bit of down-time, we can also go ahead and schedule the wedding reception. Next Saturday?"

"I’ll try not to get them killed before then," John said.

That joke got less funny about two days later, when the mission to a supposedly abandoned Ancient site on M3X-118 went pear shaped in the space of about ten seconds; John didn’t so much mind hostile natives anymore, and he was getting increasingly blase about the Wraith, but both at once was dirty pool, as far as he was concerned.

And of course the retreat was a disorganized clusterfuck, because Teyla wanted to go back for the guys in iron collars who one could only assume were captives or slaves or something unsavory, and Ronon wanted to stay and pick off the three Wraith, and the Wraith wanted the Jumper and the angry natives seemed to want Rodney’s laptop, and everyone was going off half-cocked in every direction, and Ronon got clocked in the head hard by some kind of Viking-ninja hammer-on-a-chain weapon.

"Don’t worry," John yelled immediately, wrapping his arms around Ronon’s chest and hauling him back up off his knees. "Scalp wounds bleed a lot, it doesn’t mean anything!"

"Shut up and get this thing off the ground!" Rodney yelled back from the doorway of the Jumper, where he and Teyla had two of the Wraith pinned down by enough automatic rounds to conquer a small Latin American dictatorship.

John and Ronon got on board eventually, and so did the third Wraith, almost, until Teyla unloaded her entire backup pistol into his face at point-blank range, which may have killed him, and at the very least caused him to lose his grip and fall ten feet to the ground.

The Wraith appeared to be sans Dart, which might have been why they were so interested in John’s Puddlejumper – at least, John hadn’t seen one, and there didn’t seem to be any pursuit once they were in the air. "Just a couple minutes to the Gate," he called back over his shoulder. "How’s everyone doing back there?"

Ronon was on the floor, with Teyla checking his pulse and Rodney keeping pressure on the wound at his hairline, just above his right temple. Both of them had blood spattered as far up as their elbows, and the cloth Rodney was using was already starting to show dark splotching as Ronon bled through. "Just go fast," Rodney said, as if maybe John would decide this would be the time to slow down and take some wildlife photos out the window.

Ronon mumbled something that stared with "I’m okay," and then got all muddled up, at least from where John was sitting.

"Dammit!" Rodney snapped. "Help me turn him over."

John looked back at the two of them sliding their hands underneath Ronon to heave, and yelled, "Hey! Keep his head and body aligned, what the fuck is wrong with you? There could be spinal damage."

"Shut up!" Rodney yelled. "Nobody asked you!" They got Ronon over just in time for him to vomit all over the floor of the Jumper...without choking, so it wasn’t like there was no good news.

They were in radio range by then, so John transmitted his code and as soon as the Gate flared open he said, "Get a medical team to the Gateroom, have them bring a backboard!"

Behind him, he could hear Ronon mumbling something, and Rodney saying, "I know, I know, it’s okay," in a tight voice that didn’t sound very soothing to John.

The medics weren’t waiting for them when they landed, but they weren’t far behind, either, and they got Ronon strapped to the backboard and carted out of the Jumper. Teyla met Elizabeth in the middle of the room and started talking in a low voice, apparently giving her the mission-report trailer. Rodney just sat on the floor looking stunned. "I can’t believe I actually missed our little adventures," he said, and then wiped sweat off his forehead with a bloody hand.

John reached down and gripped him by the forearm, hauling him to his feet. "Head wounds always look worse than they are," he said. "Because of all the blood."

At first he thought Rodney was in shock, but after further observation, John was struck with the frightening but inevitable realization that he was just...handling it calmly. They walked together to the infirmary, and Rodney let a nurse help him wash up while Carson looked Ronon over and pronounced him concussed, but not suffering from any internal bleeding or spine injury. "Just a little tap on the head," Carson said cheerfully, and instead of trying to strangle him, Rodney just nodded as if he’d pretty much suspected that all along. "We’ll be keeping him a bit for observation, but that’s nothing to worry about."

"How long?" Rodney asked.

"Oh, that depends on how persistent his symptoms are. At least 24 hours – no more than 72, unless he should begin to show signs of more serious brain trauma, which you can’t rule out, but doesn’t look likely to me at the moment."

"Is he conscious?"

"Yes, but say what you’d like to say to him quickly, because what he mainly needs right now is rest," Carson said, stepping away from the doorway that led to what was in John’s mind the tragically familiar row of hospital beds.

A nurse was just finishing taping up the gauze over Ronon’s stitches when they came in. "I’m sorry," Ronon said as soon as he saw them. "I should’ve seen that coming, don’t know why I didn’t...."

"Forget it," John said. "Happens to the best of us, and Carson says it’s barely even anything. You’re going to be fine."

"Yeah," Ronon said. "Guess so."

Rodney stood over him, just filling up on the sight of him for a long moment before he reached down and put the back of his hand gently against Ronon’s cheek, then took it away. "They want you to sleep, so I’m going to take a shower and get something to eat. I’ll see you after a while."

"Okay," Ronon said. "See you." Rodney kissed him, just a short peck on the lips, and walked out.

"I guess I’ll...." John said, gesturing toward the door, and Rodney’s back. "So you can rest."

"Okay," Ronon said again. "Bye."

All in all, it was kind of anticlimactic.

John jogged down the hall to catch up to Rodney. "Hey," he said, and Rodney turned toward him. "Are you...all right?"

"I’m fine," Rodney said, a defensive note creeping into his voice. "I’m sorry if I took a bit of a tone with you, but it was the heat of the moment– "

"Rodney, I don’t care about that. Look, if you’re scared, if you’re – upset– "

"I’m fine," Rodney insisted. "I’m not scared, I’m _fine_. It’s a concussion – I got one falling off the rope ladder to my treehouse when I was seven."

"You had a treehouse?"

"Of course," Rodney said. "It was the only place in the whole neighborhood where a person could study in peace."

"Yeah, but if– "

"Stop," Rodney said tersely, holding up his hand. "Don’t do this. Don’t– This is my job, Colonel. I can handle it."

"Jesus, fine," John said in exasperation. "Fine, excuse me for expressing concern. I’ll spare you the friendly interest, in the future."

"Oh, this is _friendly_? This is you being my friend."

"Of course it is! What the hell else would I be?"

"My boss, trying to figure out if I can still do the job," Rodney said. "And I can. This is the risk that comes with being on the team, I know that, I accept that. Fish all you want, but I’m not giving you any reason to tell anyone that having both of us on the same team makes us anything less than totally professional, because – because don’t you dare replace him! He likes working for _you_, and I don’t want him to lose that over...."

Trust Rodney to get the situation completely backwards. "Rodney, if I’m fishing for anything, it’s reasons to keep the four of us together, not to get anyone fired."

"Well, then that’s what I’m giving you. This is me, doing my job in an incredibly cool-headed, professional manner, and in no way letting my personal life interfere, in spite of the undeniable fact that the person I’m supposed to spend the rest of my life with may or may not get his skull smashed open on any given day because of something you told him to do. Which I’m fine with! Because this is the job. But you can see how it would be stressful, and look, look how well I’m managing my stress."

John looked at him for a long minute, watching him bristle and vibrate and bluster silently, watching the fear bleed through. "You’re good at it," he said seriously. "You’re a real pro."

Rodney opened his mouth to snap back, and then paused, digesting what John said. "Oh. Well...yes, I am. And so is Ronon."

"Damn right," John said. "I’ve got the best team in Atlantis. I wouldn’t trust anyone else. So listen, you plan to hang around and bug the shit out of the doctors all night, or you want me to come over and we can do something?"

"Something...like what?" Rodney said, and John tried not to feel guilty about how baffled he looked.

"I don’t know, a movie or something? Didn’t we use to do that sometimes?"

"We did," Rodney admitted. "Sure, you can...come over any time. Actually, I have this bedframe I could have you take a look at...."

*

The databurst came through from Earth the same day Ronon was scheduled to be released from the infirmary, and there were two video clips and an audio file earmarked for Rodney personally. He let them sit, because as much as he never got mail, Ronon _really_ never got his own mail, and Rodney thought it might be sort of fun for him to be included.

Three different people passed through his lab to mention that he had mail sitting unopened on the server; Rodney knew his co-workers were nosy bastards, but he hadn’t realized they watched the timestamps to see how long it took everyone to pick up their messages. That seemed like a lot of work for very little gossip capital.

By the time Cadman breezed through, he was fed up. "I know!" he said. "I’ll watch them tonight! Christ, am I stuck with you _forever_?"

"Just think of me as the best girlfriend you didn’t even know you needed," she said, sitting on his desk. Rodney made a strangled noise and pulled a file folder out from under her ass. He didn’t actually need it, but he felt that he had to make his point. "How’s Ronon?"

"He’s fine. They’re releasing him this evening."

"Can I ask you a personal question?"

"No. No, you may not."

She put her elbows on her knees, leaning down toward him like a vulture with especially poor social skills. "Do you guys _really_ have sex?" Rodney opened his mouth and then just sat there, struck stupid. "Because you kind of make a cute couple," she continued breezily. "I mean, you’ve really grown on me. But I keep not being able to picture the sex– "

"_Stop trying_! This instant! That is – that is a complete invasion of privacy, this whole _conversation_ is a– Seriously, what is wrong with you? Is it medical? Can we get you one of those special bracelets that would warn people about your _debilitating condition_?"

Cadman leaned back on her hands, smirking at him. "Not that there’s anything wrong with a marriage based on trust and commitment and blah blah blah. I’m just saying, I hope you’ve discussed the boundaries of your relationship, because he’s a lot younger than you are, and he’s probably not as much past the whole passion– "

"We have sex!" Rodney yelled. "We’ve been married less than three weeks – we haven’t even been dating for four months yet; we’re newlyweds! Of course we’re– yes! Great sex, passionate sex – crazy, dirty weasel sex! Constantly, except for when he’s got head trauma or I’m stuck at work because people keep coming in to bother me with ridiculous, inappropriate questions about things that are nobody’s business but ours!"

"Okay, God," Cadman said, as if _Rodney_ were the one without any manners. Then her eyes went somehow sharper, giving him one of those rare and unsettling glimpses of the Cadman whose inner workings were as complicated and dangerous as a bomb’s. "I just wondered, because you’re not very – you know. Warm around each other. You hardly ever act like a couple, at least not where anyone can see you."

"Excuse me for having some class," Rodney said. "You want us to make out in the mess hall?"

"Well, I don’t want you not to on my account," she said lightly, bopping up to her feet. "Or anyone else’s."

"Can’t I just wear my rainbow pin?" Rodney grumbled at his computer screen.

"You have one?"

"No."

"Yeah," she said, with a sly note to her voice. "I didn’t think so."

After that, Rodney had to put in extra effort to stay completely focused on work (because otherwise he would have lost a whole evening following Cadman around to tell her _one more thing_ he’d thought up in response to that) – so much effort that he lost track of time completely until Ronon pinged his headset.

"Shit," Rodney said. "I lost – I didn’t realize it was so late. I’ll be right up."

"Down," Ronon corrected. "I got home fine on my own; there’s nothing wrong with me. Just wondered where you were."

"I’m home. In two minutes, I’m home, I’m walking out the door right now."

And walking through his own door, where he was immediately grabbed and manhandled to the wall, Ronon’s strong hands sliding up his sides as they strained into the kiss. Rodney still wasn’t used to kissing with a six-inch height difference; he’d always preferred tall women and medium-sized men in the past, and now he preferred kissing while lying down. But he was hardly going to complain about this – Ronon crowding him like he was trying to sink through Rodney or wrap all the way around him, making the kiss deeper and dirtier as the seconds ticked by.

"Oh," Rodney gasped when Ronon finally let his mouth go. "_Hi_."

"Hi."

"How do you feel?" He reached up to touch the fine stitches at Ronon’s hairline gingerly.

"Good. Better in five minutes when I’m fucking you through the mattress."

"So I shouldn’t expect your usual brand of elegant wooing this evening, is what you’re saying," Rodney gasped, as Ronon worried at his neck hard enough that it was probably going to leave a mark that would make Cadman’s day tomorrow.

His prediction was closer to the mark than Ronon’s; Ronon lost points on the mattress thing, because in reality they only made it to a living room chair, which Rodney used to brace his elbows on while every shove of Ronon’s big, solid cock inside him made his knees skid along the smooth carpeting and knock against the legs of the chair. More bruises, probably.

"Holy shit," he said when it was over, sprawled forward against the cushioned seat of the chair and prevented from slithering to the floor by Ronon’s hot, heavy-breathing weight on his back. "Maybe we should spend more time apart."

Ronon grunted against the back of his neck. "Because we need the help? Our sex life is in trouble and I didn’t even notice?"

"It’s really, really not," Rodney said smugly into the fabric of the chair.

"I woo," Ronon said, faintly affronted. "I’m romantic."

"You are," Rodney assured him. "You’re also extremely heavy. By which I mean, manly and imposing and handsome, and also, can I get up?"

After they’d grabbed a quick shower and pulled together a bottle of wine, a bowl of popcorn, and the three sealed trays of hospital food that Ronon had smuggled out for Rodney, they settled on the couch, Ronon’s arms around Rodney and Rodney’s head on his chest – a sort of embarrassingly high-school-sweethearts arrangement they’d come to months ago and that Rodney loved out of all bounds of reason.

Almost as much as he loved the fact that his personal computer with the flat-panel screen now operated by remote control. "Oh, hey," Rodney said as he scrolled through the movie options he had saved on his hard drive, "the databurst came today, and we got some messages."

"We?"

"Well, technically they were addressed to me. But what’s mine is yours, right? Oh, my God!" Ronon stared intently at the still screen, and when Rodney had mostly recovered from the shock, he jabbed Ronon in the ribs and said, "Don’t stare at her breasts! I’m sitting right here!"

"I’m staring at her uniform," Ronon said distractedly. "I’m still bad at reading that stuff; nobody here wears uniforms like that. Colonel?"

"Lieutenant Colonel," Rodney said, and pushed play.

_Hi, Rodney_, the recording said brightly. _I know we haven’t really...stayed in touch since you shipped out_. Or before he’d shipped out, actually, but Rodney refrained from pointing that out to an .avi file. _But we got your, uh, your news with the last communique from Atlantis, and ever since then I– Well, I guess I’ve been thinking about you quite a bit._

"Christ, it really is true," Rodney said. "After you get married, you become more attractive to women!"

"That’s that girl?" Ronon said a bit suspiciously, and Rodney could have jabbed at him about how it was very obviously a girl, if you wanted to stay in the most general terms possible, but even he had more sense than that.

"Yes," he said instead. "That’s Colonel Carter."

_– probably never knew that I got a call about you while they were putting together the Atlantis expedition. Your – ah – your history with the SGC I guess raised some red flags._ She looked apologetic, like she was the first person to break the news to him that SGC thought he was a raging asshole. _Nobody ever had any doubt you were qualified, but I guess they wanted to talk to some people who’d worked with you on a – a personal level. Atlantis isn’t exactly the kind of place you can get a transfer out of, which...I don’t have to tell you, right?_

She _smiled_ at him. "I’m not the one with the head wound, am I?" Rodney asked.

"And if you close your mouth, you might stay that way," Ronon said. Rodney snapped his mouth shut.

_This just seemed like the right time to tell you what I told them_, Sam said with another winning smile.

"That you wanted a restraining order?" Rodney guessed aloud. Ronon’s soft chuckle jostled his shoulder. "That Pegasus would do, if they didn’t know of any galaxies further out?"

_– never really been given the kind of assignment that really played to your strengths. I think – I always thought you were meant to be an explorer, Rodney. You take chances. You try things without being able to explain why you’re doing them._

"I always explain!" Rodney protested. "Just because nobody follows my logic– "

_The same things that make it hard for you to...fit in, in a traditional lab situation.... I told them those were the same things that were going to make you excel in a place where there were no procedures to use as a crutch. What I didn’t tell them – what I guess I’m sending you this because I think you should hear it – is that I thought you’d excel not just as a scientist, but as a person. You’ve always been something special, Rodney. I just always felt like you were looking for something to be special for, and you’d never really found it. From everything I’ve heard, I was right. I hope I was right. At least, it sounds like there’s a – um – there’s someone –_

"Why is she blushing?" Ronon asked.

"Cadman’s given you a very warped view of American women," Rodney said.

_I just wanted to tell you, it felt really good to hear that you were...happy. And I hope that...this person brings out the best in you, because I think there’s a lot of best in there to come out. Look me up when you visit home again, okay?_

"Okay," Rodney said stupidly. Sam’s image waved at him, and then went dark.

"That was nice of her," Ronon said, not very much as if he appreciated the gesture.

Rodney picked up his hand and kissed his palm, where the half-hearted cut Rodney had inflicted on him at their wedding had completely healed over, leaving no mark at all. "Carter’s all right," he said as he opened the second clip. "Oh, my _God_."

"Okay, who’s _this_?" Ronon demanded. "I didn’t even know you knew this many women."

"This is my sister," Rodney said quietly, and pressed play.

_Hey...Rodney_, Jeannie said, adjusting her glasses and waving at the camera. _I got your last e-mail, and they said they could send this back to you. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the way we’ve been able to write to each other now and then, but I just felt like...this was something that needed to be said face-to-face, or as close as we could get._

"That doesn’t sound like good news," Rodney said.

_Rodney...I don’t know what to say to you_, Jeannie said helplessly, a tiny break in her voice. _I feel like we have a relationship now, like there’s more than just a huge blank space where my brother used to be, but then I hear something like this, and I realize how.... I realize that I don’t know you at all anymore._

Ronon put his hand on Rodney’s shoulder and squeezed.

_You’re married! Rodney, you’re married. And I don’t know who this guy is, or what he’s like, or – if he treats you right, and the way you write, I guess I may never have a chance to meet him. I’ve had time to get used to you not knowing my kids, but I wasn’t really prepared for this. This is _me_ not knowing someone who’s part of my own family._ She sighed and then went quiet, and Rodney and Ronon both held very still until she looked directly into the camera again – Rodney’s own blue eyes staring at him, stubborn and sad. _I won’t even ask if Dad ever knew you were gay, because you’re way too smart to have ever told him. But I keep wondering if Mom knew – if you even figured it out before she died. I don’t know, maybe it would make me feel better if I weren’t the only person who didn’t know?_

"You weren’t the only person," Rodney said, as if it could help.

She smiled at him and said, _I’ve been trying to guess what he’s like. I don’t really know what your type is, but he’s probably smart – obviously he’s smart, or you wouldn’t have the time of day for him. He’s got to have a sense of humor. I don’t know, you always had expensive tastes – well, not counting food. But you like to have the best, so I think if you were going to marry somebody...either he’d be really, really amazing...or you’d be so psychotically in love with him that you were just convinced he was really, really amazing. Either way, I guess that bodes well for the two of you. Anyway, if you want to show this to him, or – if he’s watching now – if you’re watching, Ronon – first, I hope I’m pronouncing your name right. And second...my brother has always been a hard guy to be close to, but then when he’s gone – you do miss him a lot. So I hope he’s right about you, and you really are amazing enough to...to get Rodney. He’s not like everybody else. If you don’t get good at being close to him, no matter how hard he makes it, then...you’ll miss him when he’s gone, and you won’t find anyone else like him. That’s just...sisterly advice, okay?_

_Anyway, Rodney, I miss you even more since this last e-mail, so – try to come home, okay? Someday? If only because I have Dad’s wedding ring, and since I don’t see myself wanting any man hanging around me for the rest of my life, I thought you might want to give it to your husband. And I really don’t want to FedEx it, or even give it to the Air Force, so you have to come get it yourself. I wouldn’t even begin to know what you two could use as a wedding present, so I sent something you have no use for, but I thought you might like to have. You can play it for Ronon. I guess that’s all I have to say. Take care of yourself, big brother._ Jeannie kissed her fingertips and touched the lens of the camera, blotting out everything but a corona of light before the frame went dark for good.

Rodney took a deep breath. "So. That was my sister."

Ronon was quiet for a minute, his fingers stroking back and forth over Rodney’s upper arm. "Do you think it would be okay if I wrote to her?"

Rodney turned his head to look up at him. "I.... Sure. Sure, of course it would be okay. She’s your sister-in-law."

"Sheppard was right. Girls do love weddings." Rodney snorted a laugh as he pulled up the audio file.

The sound quality was terrible, with the hollow sound of multiple re-dubs and half-obscured by tape hiss. For a couple of seconds, even after the music started, that was still all Rodney could think: _the sound quality on this is terrible_. Then the reality of the whole thing hit him, and he had to turn it off abruptly.

Ronon pulled him closer, stroking his back. "What is it?" he asked against Rodney’s hair.

"It’s – um – it’s a copy of an old tape – that we made. A long, long time ago. That’s my mother and Jeannie singing, and that’s me playing the piano. I think I was about nine, and Jeannie would have been seven. This was my mother’s favorite song."

Ronon didn’t say anything immediately. Finally, he said, "I want to hear it. If that’s okay."

"Sure," Rodney said. "Sorry, I just...needed a minute."

She’d had a beautiful singing voice, his mother. Jeannie wasn’t bad, either, and even though Rodney’s playing made his adult self wince, he knew that it was passing-grade for almost anyone, and quite impressive given his age. _Looking everywhere, haven’t found him yet, he’s the big affair I cannot forget_– God, Rodney hadn’t thought of this song in ages, or the way she used to sing him and Jeannie to sleep with it at night in that sweet, clear voice. _There’s a somebody I’m longing to see, I hope that he turns out to be someone to watch over me...._

"What happened to her?" Ronon asked in the silence after the song ended.

"She killed herself," Rodney said. A part of him was trying to remember when the last time was that he told anyone that, that he talked to anyone at all about it, and coming up blank. "She sent us off to school one morning, took half a bottle of Valium, and cut her wrists in the bathtub. The cleaning lady found her body. She wasn’t a very _responsible_ parent. But she taught me how to play the piano. I really do think she tried. She just...wasn’t good at it. Not the piano. I mean being a mother."

"I know what you mean. What did your sister say you were going to give me? Something for weddings?"

"Dad’s wedding ring. On my world, married people wear special rings on their left hands – nothing to do with concealed weapons," he added, managing a smile. "They used to think there was a single vein that ran all the way from your fingers up to your heart." He traced the same path up over Ronon’s arm.

Ronon gave him an aggrieved look. "You didn’t tell me that. We’re supposed to have rings?"

"Well, it’s not _required_. It’s just traditional."

"I want to do this the right way," Ronon said. "I don’t want people to see us not doing parts of it and not be sure if we’re really married. I would have gotten you a ring if I’d known."

Fleetingly, he thought of Cadman and wondered if she’d gotten to Ronon, too. "We can get rings. I’ll get you a temporary one, until we have my father’s."

He had that song running through his head for the rest of the night. He even caught himself humming it as he drifted off to sleep, the double full moons streaming light into his window and Ronon snoring softly beside him.

*

In spite of how hard John was working to keep both eyes and the ones in the back of his head open for the first stress fractures, he guessed wrong, and would have missed the big event except by sheer chance. He was just coming out of the locker room across the hall from the gym when the ruckus started, plenty of shouting and the distinctive squeak of boots scraping forcefully across the plastic gym floor.

He bolted inside and found six Marines standing around arguing, and Ronon holding Lt. Castle against the wall with one hand twisted in his shirtfront and one arm across his throat. John flattered himself he was getting good at understanding the range of Ronon’s homicidal moods, and this one was about an eleven; he hadn’t seen anything quite like this since Michael.

"Hey!" he barked, grabbing Ronon’s arm. "Stop! Let him go." A slight twitch in Ronon’s jaw was the only sign he’d heard anything; his eyes stayed hard on Castle, who was glaring back defiantly even as his nostrils flared, trying to catch his breath. "_Ronon_," John said.

Reluctantly, Ronon eased off of Castle, whose hand flew to his throat as he gasped, but who still looked a lot more pissed off than scared. "I know what that means," Ronon said to him. "You don’t get to say it about Rodney."

"I’m not the only one, you know," Castle spat. "And you can hit me if you want, but people are going to keep saying it, because it’s the truth."

Ronon leaned toward him again, smiling viciously. "Yeah, but it’s gonna have to be someone else saying it until the wires come out of your jaw."

"Okay, enough," John ordered both of them. He’d been juggling the schedules so that Ronon hardly ever crossed paths with the handful of people John had pegged as risks for this kind of thing; Castle hadn’t been on the list. "Ronon, get out of here. Go home and cool off." Ronon hesitated. "That’s an order, go!" John snapped, and he did.

That just left John with a room full of riled-up Marines, and no time to waste trying to figure out who was on which side. Atlantis couldn’t afford to _have_ sides; that was the whole fucking problem, right there in a nutshell. The only way to handle this was to find something everybody could agree on.

Putting on all the calm and cool he possessed, John leaned his elbow on a nearby weight machine and said, "You know, I’ve had CO’s in the past who would just have let them fight it out. They figured that’s how a unit learns to respect each other, sort out their own differences, get this kind of shit out of their systems. That’s never really been my style."

"Sir, am I in trouble?" Castle asked. "Because I don’t think I did anything wrong, and I don’t think we should be disciplined just for saying things that certain people don’t want to hear."

"I didn’t actually see what happened," John reminded him, "but I feel fairly confident you were being a dick. On the other hand, you have a point: this isn’t kindergarten, and I don’t have the time or the interest in supervising a hundred and twenty soldiers on this base thirty hours a day to make sure they aren’t being dicks. Besides, you’re all smart enough, I shouldn’t have to."

"Not everybody’s scared of him," someone else muttered.

"Smart doesn’t mean smart enough not to talk smack about the spouse of somebody who has no problem with breaking your nose, though I don’t guess it’ll hurt any of you to keep that in mind, too. What I meant is, use your heads, guys. Who do you think runs this city? Who are you depending on to keep you alive? Listen, I don’t give a damn what you think about McKay or his personal life, but let me tell you, he’s Mr. Popularity back home; there are a dozen different civilian labs and universities who would pay through the nose to have him and wouldn’t care who’s banging him at night. What do you think happens if you manage to convince him people on Atlantis have a problem with him, that we don’t want him here anymore? Everyone who comes to Atlantis is smart, so think about it. You don’t want McKay to look too closely at his career options. None of us would make it two months without him, and that’s why you’re going to keep your personal feelings to yourself – not because Ronon’s going to beat you up or I’m going to write a report or you’re going to be forced into sensitivity training or anything else. Like I said, think about it. And it’s my strong suggestion all of you go hit the showers and get yourselves calmed down while you’re thinking."

They all took him up on his suggestion. John took a few minutes to get his own jumpy nerves under control by picking up the free weights and sorting them back onto the rack, and when he turned around, there was Rodney, looking grim. "Don’t tell me word’s gotten around already," John said.

"Actually, I, uh, caught the show on the security feed."

"Well...it had to happen eventually. Hopefully what I said helped put it in perspective for everybody, and we won’t have to deal with any other...you know, incidents."

"Christ," Rodney said, "you think I came down here to _thank_ you?" And now that John was looking more carefully, he could see that Rodney wasn’t just generically agitated – he looked _pissed_. He looked pissed at John. Rodney crossed his arms over his chest and said, "Well, huh, maybe I should thank you. At least now I know where I stand. Actually, this explains a lot."

"Oh, give me a break, Rodney. I had to tell them something."

"And you went with, ‘Don’t call my friend Rodney a faggot because he’s _really good at math_?’"

"Rodney– "

"It honestly never occurred to you to try ‘because it’s bigoted and wrong,’ or ‘because it’s bad for discipline,’ or, hey, this could be a wacky idea, stop me if this is just too surreal, but how about ‘because he’s my _friend_?’"

"Rodney– "

"No. Stop. Shut up." John’s mouth closed abruptly. He’d seen Rodney in a whole festive rainbow of bad moods, but not this one, until now. "I am so sick of your passive-aggressive crap, I am so sick of waiting for the other shoe to drop. You could do me a big favor and just go ahead and call me a faggot yourself, and then we’d have it out of the way."

"Would you keep your voice down? Also, go to hell, because I’ve never given you any problems about this– "

"You’ve never given me _anything_ about this! You never said so much as _congratulations_, let alone that you were happy for me– "

John wasn’t as worried about keeping the volume low on this thing anymore. God, all the fucking time he wasted trying to keep this city running smoothly, and Rodney was spending twice as many hours – on _speed_ – trying to manufacture chaos. "Oh, well, you’re right!" John said, raising his voice even though he knew there was no way he was going to win a shouting match with Rodney McKay. "You’re right, let’s get this out of the way. _Congratulations_, Rodney. Congratulations on your ridiculous sham of an accidental marriage to somebody you barely even know, which you practically begged me to get you out of!"

"Well, I changed my mind!"

John snorted. "Surprise, surprise."

"What’s that even supposed to mean?" John looked away, because no, no, he was not going to get– This was already coming rapidly unglued without his help. "Goddammit, John – can you at least _look_ at me? What do you mean by that?"

Oh, the hell with it. "Do you even know why you’re doing this?"

"Because I fell in love! The same reason everybody in the whole world eventually gets– "

"That’s crap, that’s _not_ why people get married. They get married because their mothers want them to, they get married for health insurance, they get married because they think everybody does it and everybody has to, but most of the time, and most _especially_ in your case, they do it for the attention."

Rodney’s eyes went three times their normal size. "What?"

"Come on! You’re the biggest drama queen I’ve ever met in my life, you make a scene about _everything_! It doesn’t come as a surprise because it’s completely your MO. You think you’re the only person who swings both ways in Atlantis? Because you’re not, and everyone around here who spends more than one and a half seconds paying attention to someone’s life other than their own already knows that. But those people know enough to mind their own damn business, and I mind my own business, too, because in a place this size with nowhere to get away to, that’s the only way we’re all going to survive – except for you, of course, because you’re completely incapable of just being queer, you have to be the _biggest, loudest queer on the fucking base_!"

Rodney took two steps backwards, still staring at him in shock. John made a little growl of frustration and scrubbed his hands over his face; God, he hated it when he got like this, when he let people _do_ this to him, let people shake him up this way. "So you don’t care what I do," Rodney said slowly, "as long as I don’t bother anybody with it, which, by the way, makes no sense at all, because as you so astutely pointed out, I’ve been bothering everybody with every aspect of my life since the minute you met me, and we used to be friends anyway, but fine, fine, this is too much for you. This goes too far."

"I need people to work together around here. I can’t afford for one person’s grandstanding to start fights, to– "

"I didn’t start that fight. Don’t you dare blame me for that."

"It’s not just that fight. People look at the two of you differently now – maybe it’s not right, but they do. And everybody’s looking at me to set the standard for how to act around you, and that’s all I’m trying to do. I want them to learn that they need to keep their personal feelings to themselves, and whatever I have to tell them to drive that home– "

"Well, they have the master to learn from when it comes to keeping their feelings to themselves, don’t they? If it matters to you at all, which it may well not? All I’ve learned from you is that we stand by our teams on Atlantis, right up until they might actually be able to use the support."

As soon as he was satisfied that Rodney was out of earshot, John went at the heavy bag until his shoulders ached and his head was ringing and he wasn’t sure who he wanted to punch anymore.

*

John wasn’t planning on going to the reception. Well, he _was_ planning on going, initially, but things being what they were when Saturday came around, he figured it would save everyone a lot of stress if he just skipped it.

What he really figured (he could admit to himself when he’d run out of paperwork to do and was settling down with his book in a chair with no clear view of the clock) was that Rodney didn’t want him there, and he really wasn’t sure he could blame him.

Teyla didn’t see it quite that way.

"Put your shoes on," she said before he got through the first sentence of his explanation. He tried again could hardly get a sound out. "I am aware of the argument you had with Rodney. As I understand it, this feast is a celebration of commitment and harmony; there is no more appropriate time for the two of you to end this quarrel. Put your shoes on, or we will be late."

"Yes, ma’am," John muttered. It didn’t come out as sarcastic as he would have liked.

The reception was a lot fancier than John expected; somebody had really gone to town – Elizabeth, he assumed – and turned the mess hall into something that was actually a little bit snazzy. The main lights were out, and there were auxiliaries set up on poles and strings, while the buffet tables were draped with Athosian embroidered cloths in dark green and gold and burgundy. They were piping something quietly over the PA that John managed to convince himself was totally not Air Supply, even a little bit, and everyone had dug up the one decent outfit they had on Atlantis except for John, who felt like an idiot in jeans and an Oxford.

Elizabeth (whose one nice outfit was a pink silk blouse with black pants and high heels), brought him a partial glass of champagne and said, "You’ll have to make it last; we’re not exactly flush."

"I’ll take what I can get," John assured her. "Not a bad turn-out." Actually, it was really...not bad. He’d quietly put the word out a week ago that he definitely had space on the roster for anyone who felt more comfortable being on duty Saturday night, and he got about forty offers. Of the other eighty-odd people who worked for John, he estimated fifty of them were here, maybe sixty. It was harder for him to guess at the scientists, but there were a lot of them – maybe almost all of them. Pretty close.

"And you were worried," Elizabeth said lightly. John faked a smile.

The food was decent, too – lots of produce and dip, some egg rolls, some sandwiches cut into itty bitty squares. It wasn’t Vacuna, but it was okay, and John managed to keep himself busy at the buffet for quite some time, delaying the part where he had to mingle. John could mingle all right when he had to, but he wasn’t really up for it tonight. He found a spot by the wall that was out of the main flow of traffic, but didn’t look too antisocial.

Teyla stayed glued to his shoulder, which John managed to be both frustrated by and grateful for at the same time. At least she didn’t try to small-talk him.

Rodney and Ronon were involved in separate conversations, about ten feet away from each other. John wondered if that was normal for a wedding reception. "What is the saying?" Teyla murmured from his side. "They clean up well?"

He laughed. "Yeah, that’s the saying." And yeah, they more or less did. Rodney was wearing an unbuttoned sportcoat and a tie, neither of which John had ever realized he owned here, and Ronon was wearing the white sweater he’d gotten as a gift on M2X-830, the Planet of the Ronon-Sized Giants. They looked cleaned-up, but comfortable. They looked happy. "You ever thought about getting married?" he asked Teyla.

"Hmm," she said noncommitally, and then, "No, I do not think I ever have. Not seriously."

And it might have been a little inappropriate, not really his business, but he said, "You were never in love?"

She hesitated a moment, looking up at him. He stayed looking forward, and eventually she did the same. "Perhaps I have been," she said. "I have known men I felt unusually touched by." He couldn’t resist smirking down at her over that, and she raised her eyebrows in a way that dared him to say anything, which he wasn’t about to do. "But I have never met such a man at the same moment that I felt...free to give so much of myself. Or, in some cases, it was he who did not feel such freedom."

"I don’t think I ever have been," John said, against his better judgment. It was so unprofessional, but then again...the lines between co-worker and friend, always blurry enough in the real world, were basically non-existent on Atlantis. You kind of had to choose between being unprofessional or being...totally alone for the rest of your life. "Is that weird? At my age?"

"I am not the person to ask," Teyla said, sounding amused. "I am a bit...tone-deaf when it comes to romance."

"Oh, thank God," John said. "We can be weird together for at least a little while longer, okay?"

She was quiet for a moment, and then said, "I think that even though they have shown a previously unexpected gift for romance, the two of them will continue to be...weird with us for some time. In their own ways."

"Couples are hard to hang out with." He had countless examples of that from his own experience alone. "It changes the dynamic."

Teyla brushed up against his arm, a determined nudge passing itself off as casual. "You should apologize to Rodney."

"Why, what did he tell you I said?"

"That you had little to no opinion on this marriage."

"I– Okay, that’s kind of what I said. Not exactly. I said– "

"Do not tell me. It does not matter. But that is what he believes, and you should tell him the truth."

Easier said than done. It took John twenty minutes to make his way casually across the mess hall, without blowing off anyone who wanted to say hello to him or looking like he was trying to snatch Rodney away for some kind of emergency.

When he finally did catch Rodney without anyone else standing directly nearby, Rodney gave him an irritated look and then looked away as if hoping someone better would come along. "What do you want?" he said.

John guessed it was too much to ask that Rodney make this easy on him. He didn’t think he had a huge window of time, here, so he cut right to the chase. "When I said it was none of my business, I meant in – in an official capacity."

"That’s not what you meant."

"Look, forget what I meant. Forget what I said. I just.... I’m sorry. I’m not good with change, okay? Actually – no, actually, I’m fine with change, usually, but this time...I really liked what we had. All of us. It’s been a long time since I’ve had friends – in the same way you three are my friends. I was just.... Finding out you guys were – a couple – made things different, and I wasn’t happy about it, and I was...a jerk."

"I knew you had a problem with it," Rodney said, jabbing his finger in John’s chest.

John slapped it away. "Yeah, you’re a genius," he said dryly. "You and the entire city knew. And I’m sorry about that, too. I mean, if I’ve fucked things up by making it look like it was...okay to treat you different now. It’s not okay." They stood there and looked at each other for a minute, until John said, "So...are we still friends?"

"That depends," Rodney said. "Did you get me a wedding present?"

"Of course I did," John said, even though he’d only that second thought of it. "You want a vacation?" Rodney’s eyes widened; it probably hadn’t ever occurred to him that John actually had. "It’d be easy to arrange. A couple of weeks? Maybe you could go back to Vacuna – cheese, beer, envy? Sound good?"

Rodney blinked a few times, then nodded hesitantly, as if he were afraid John planned to change his mind the second he agreed. "Wait, this is a trip for two, right?" John snorted in disbelief, and Rodney said, "Okay, okay, right. Well...yes. That’d be nice. Thank you. I mean, I should ask Ronon, but I’m sure.... It sounds nice. Thanks. But now, actually, I’m sort of the man of the hour, so– " He made a vague gesture that encompassed the whole reception, and John let him get back to it.

He had to hand it to Elizabeth – she was right when she said that the reception would be for everybody else. Rodney and Ronon looked happy enough, but it was looking around and watching the other hundred and twenty people packed into the mess hall, the women in their good earrings and the men in their uncomfortable shoes, laughing over itty bitty sandwiches and waiting in line to pick the next song on the soundboard the engineers had set up, trying to remember how to swing dance or, in some cases, Macarena, that made him realize how few chances Atlantis got at something like this. Sure, there was always a gathering of some kind somewhere in the city, and now that they had the Daedalus it wasn’t quite as difficult to get decent booze and food they recognized, but they hardly ever had _this_. A special event. Once in a lifetime.

It hit him for real, right between the shoulders, when the kitchen staff wheeled out the covered dessert table and Elizabeth prodded Ronon and Rodney up onto a riser underneath one of the floor lamps with fresh glasses of champagne and public demand for a toast. All these people, John thought, watching from his position on the edge of the crowd – all these brave as hell people who came here a year, two years, some of them three years ago with no idea what they were doing, no guarantees and all the hope in the universe, these people who’d faced death and wouldn’t run away, and who’d come here to clap and whistle for two of their own who gave them something to keep hoping for.

He hadn’t been giving Atlantis enough credit. Not half enough.

"Fine, fine, fine," Rodney said, impatient voice and lopsided grin. The noise subsided, which seemed to startle him a little, and John chuckled under his breath at that. Rodney wasn’t used to talking to people who were actually paying close attention to him. "Well...um...this is really Elizabeth’s party – I mean, it wouldn’t have happened except for Elizabeth, so– " A round of applause broke out for Elizabeth, and Rodney waited for it to die out.

"I suppose, just – thank you," he said. "I don’t...." He stopped and scratched the back of his neck, frowning as he tried to figure out how to continue. "This isn’t really about me," he said. "I know, I know, some of you have been waiting three years to hear me admit that– " John joined in with the laughing and applause on that, until Rodney raised his hand and went on. "But it’s, it’s not," he said, more seriously. "I’ve, um...I’ve been married almost a month now, and having the champagne and the cake that I’m going to be very pissed off if I find out isn’t under that sheet – I mean, it’s nice, it’s wonderful, and I appreciate it, but it doesn’t make me any more married than I was yesterday. This – tonight – this is mostly about us. You. Because I wasn’t sure how many people would show up tonight, and...there’s a lot of you. And most of you are probably here for the free food, which is why I would be here if someone else had gotten married, but I’ve had a few drinks, and I’m just going to go out on a limb and say that you’re also here because...something about this matters to you. Either you think of us as friends and you want us to know you’re happy for us, or you believe we’re doing something right and you want to support us, or maybe you just like weddings, that’s fine, too. Whatever your reasons are – we started out – Ronon and I started out doing this pretty much completely alone, and tonight...you all showed up to be a part of it, too. So...that’s what it’s about – Atlantis. So...thank you, Atlantis, for...wanting to be here – for wanting us here."

He stopped talking, but no one seemed to be sure – it was hard to be sure, with Rodney – if he was really finished. John took it upon himself to say, out loud and in his firmest decision-making voice, "Atlantis," and immediately the crowd took it up as their toast, glasses clinking and voice after voice, soft and reverent or loud and triumphant, saying _Atlantis, Atlantis_. Teyla squeezed his hand as she drank.

There was a little murmuring on the riser about whether or not Ronon would make a toast, and stuck between Rodney and Elizabeth, it didn’t look like he had much choice. He seemed to agree, stepping forward with the look of someone resigned to his fate. Somebody wolf-whistled at him; John would have sworn it was Katie Brown.

"I do want to say something," he said. "Just because people keep asking me. People have been asking why I wanted to get married when we’d only been together six months." Rodney held up three fingers over Ronon’s shoulder, which he either didn’t see or chose to ignore. "I’m never sure how to answer that, but.... That’s kind of a lie. I do know. The reason is that this isn’t actually my first time. I mean...I’ve been married before."

The guests fell suddenly into a deep silence. Ronon glanced over his shoulder at Rodney’s blank, slightly stricken face, then looked down and said, "I got married when I was seventeen. Her grandfather was my father’s taskmaster when he was in the service, and...I didn’t know her very well. It wasn’t really my idea – or hers. But she was...a good wife. She was. I was gone all the time, in the field. She wrote me letters. Everybody – everybody likes to get letters," he said almost apologetically, as if he thought he might have to persuade a bunch of soldiers and interstellar explorers of that – although really, it probably wasn’t them he felt like he needed to apologize to. "But I still didn’t really know her. And it didn’t matter to me that much, because I figured there’d be lots of time for us to get to know each other later, when my tour was over. So I guess if people – if it seems fast, how Rodney and I did it, that’s just because...he kind of asked me what I thought about it, and I didn’t want to say we should wait for later. Maybe we’d have been more sure about it later, but then again, maybe we don’t have later. I knew we had now. That’s all I wanted to say. Except thanks for coming to the party."

John had no clue how to follow that one, but somebody else in the crowd – Simpson, maybe? – said, "Carpe diem," and that was the toast that everyone else took up. Rodney moved up alongside Ronon and said something to him, and Ronon said something back, and then Rodney put his hands on Ronon’s face and kissed him, standing on the balls of his feet while Ronon leaned down with his hands covering the small of Rodney’s back.

The crowd went wild. John put his arm around Teyla’s shoulders and grinned down at her, seeing his own smug pride reflected back up in her smile, like they were the fucking mother and father of the bride.

Rodney and Ronon headed up the line to the desserts, which were over on John and Teyla’s side of the room, so that all four of them ended up standing together as the cooks ceremoniously removed the coverings. There were half a dozen dishes full of different kinds of candies, mints and chocolates and little sugar cookies with sprinkles in the shape of wedding bells, and there was a big wagon-wheel of a cake, two layers deep and a yard across if it was an inch, covered in white icing. There was also a handwritten sign pinned to the tablecloth under it that said _LEMON PUDDING CAKE. If you do not eat citrus for whatever reason, you don’t have to complain – JUST DON’T EAT IT._

John had never seen anyone’s face fall that quickly in his entire life. Rodney looked up at Ronon and said, "Now do you believe me? They _hate me_! What did I ever do to them? I’m not even a finicky eater – except for a couple of little, tiny, _medical_– "

"Hey," John said, poking him in the back, and Rodney turned around just as the applause broke out for the other cake they were wheeling out of the kitchen – four layers of dark, sinful chocolate, garnished with peels of more chocolate. The sign below that one said, in the same handwriting, _Congratulations, Ronon &amp; Dr. McKay  –Food Services_.

"Oh," Rodney said, wide-eyed. "Wow."

Ronon stroked the back of his neck firmly, and down to his shoulder. "So shut up and get some cake," he suggested with a deep laugh under his voice.

Rodney kissed him again quickly and then totally abandoned him, forging through the crowd toward the second table while totally changing his story on exactly whose wedding reception this was.

"Whose idea was the first cake?" Ronon asked under his breath.

John shrugged humbly and said, "They’re crazy about me in the kitchens. The rest of your life, huh?"

Ronon smiled without taking his eyes off Rodney and said, "That’s the plan."

 

 

_It is the perfect moment of placing two lives in the hands of yes, but you never could have guessed how much labor God would have to do...  – Daniel Bachhuber_

 


End file.
